


Cor Aut Mors

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah Mormont Lives, Mild Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character: Jon Snow, Minor Character: Lyanna Mormont, Minor Character: Missandei, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] She wants to ask the most important question of all beneath the silent, watchful eyes of the old gods his ancestors have always kept.
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Cor Aut Mors

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted to get this finished for Christmas 2019 but obviously that didn't work out. So here we are, six months late. I also wrote ninety percent of this on my phone at work, so who says fanfiction doesn't pay? ;)

Two years after Daenerys ascends her throne, she decides that she should go north.

It’s been a whole year since she last left King’s Landing. The first time, a few months after ending Cersei Lannister’s mad reign, she had traversed the Stormlands with Ser Jorah and her little Dothraki horde. The second time she had journeyed to Dorne to meet the new prince, Edric Vaith, as voted by her people for his bravery during the Battle of King’s Landing, where he joined the cause with other Dornish houses to avenge House Martell. Tyrion had idly wondered if she should marry him and solidify her union with Dorne, but she’s sure that had mostly been to get under Jorah’s skin, for since the discovery of their more intimate relationship, her Hand has cracked as many jokes a day as he can, and the relationship with Dorne has never been steadier. Tyrion’s jokes don’t bother her—dragons have thick hides—but Jorah is rather delicate, considering he is one of the most seasoned warriors in Westeros.

She wouldn’t have him any other way. Nor does she have any use for political couplings. She’s done that before, and it’s not something she ever wants to revisit.

Not when she finally knows what it’s like to be loved completely and fiercely, and to feel that love for someone else in return.

But she’s getting itchy feet again now. Her whole life has been spent wandering from place to place, barely one step ahead of the people sent to kill her. She blossomed into a woman with the nomadic Dothraki. She travelled across Essos freeing slaves. She’s rarely spent so long stuck in one place.

Which is why she needs to get out for a while. Travelling north seems like the perfect excuse. It’s a long journey, which would suit her yearnings for freedom, and it will be a bonus to see some of the sights so dear to Jorah’s heart.

Daenerys plans to take Jorah home. Back to Bear Island. Back to the place he came from.

Not that he thinks of Bear Island as home anymore. He’s told her countless times that he’s only home whenever he’s with her.

She’s never been someone’s home before. She’s been a conqueror, a mother, a goddess. Never something as simple as that.

She likes it. To be something soft and nurturing to someone, to be their safe place and their haven. Fire and blood, those are her family words. Death. Destruction. War. Destroying and demolishing , never building.

She’s tried to change that. First in Essos, now here.

And now with Jorah. Taking his heart in her hands and keeping it safe. She’s been careless with it before, too many times. But she’s vowed she never will be again.

His words echo hers. Fit with them better than any other. Winter is coming is more apt, some might have said, before they knew of Jon Snow’s Targaryen ties. Fire and ice, neutralising each other.

Daenerys knows better.

 _Here we stand_. No words could be better. Standing tall and steadfast by her side. Never swaying. Loyal. Enduring no matter the cost. Never trying to neutralise or change, simply staying with her through everything. He’d stand there until the end of the world, she knows. With him right there with her, she knows no fear. It wasn’t a lie when she’d told him that she needed him by her side; it was the most truthful she had ever been in her whole life up until the time she told him she loved him, cradling his body in the sanctuary of her thighs, finally at peace with the weight of his body pressing into hers, sticky and sated after the passion that had combusted like a thunderstorm.

 _That_ was what home had felt like.

But it will still be nice to be the one to take Jorah back to the place he was born. She’s bestowed upon him several gifts over the years—armour, his place as general in her armies, Lord Commander of her Queensguard, his very own Valyrian steel blade forged from Drogon’s flames, Dragonsong, sister blade of her own, Bear’s Roar, which she carries by her side always, like her female warrior ancestors Rhaenys and Visenya. Varys didn’t like it—worried that it sends the wrong message, she supposes—but Jorah has always counselled caution. He taught her how to use it, spending hours tussling with her in the training yard showing her how to stand and how to attack—which had led to some very heated tussling between the sheets later on which was much more hands-on and enjoyable.

Jorah will staunchly say that the gift of her love is the only thing he wants. Which she’s sure is true. No man has ever been so unfaltering. But it was his dream a long time ago, in a dusty tent on the Dothraki Sea, and she wants to bestow that gift upon him now she has the power to do so. Wants him to be able to walk the paths he once walked, reminisce about the times he had.

Wants to see those places for herself, to see the frost-kissed trees and the azure seas that rival ones found in the Summer Isles. Wants to tread the winding paths he trod, see the bears infamous and fierce.

Wants to kiss him in the snow and bury her fingers in his fine fur clothes.

Wants to see his quarters in Mormont Keep.

Wants to ask the most important question of all beneath the silent, watchful eyes of the old gods his ancestors have always kept.

And so their plans begin.

\-- --

There’s a gathering in the Red Keep on the morn of their departure.

Tyrion, Varys, Sam, Ser Davos, various members of her household. Daenerys sits tall and proud upon her silver horse. They wanted her to ride in a carriage, but that’s never been _her_. She’s not that kind of queen. She wants to be with her people. And they respect her more for it.

Her retinue is small; she doesn’t want to take hundreds with her, as she’s sure past kings have, showing off their power. She has the people she needs. Jorah, of course, there as her Lord Commander to her people and as so much more to her intimate circle. Grey Worm and Missandei for their esteemed places, protection, and friendship. Her few remaining Dothraki, to give them a chance to travel as they haven’t been able to since settling in the Westerlands. A few of her Unsullied for their skills with their spears, for Jorah always tells her to be careful. Arya Stark, to give her the opportunity to reunite with her family.

Although she isn’t sure who would be brave enough to tackle her with Drogon soaring overhead. Rhaegal will be staying for the protection of the others.

“Well, Mormont, be careful up north,” says Tyrion, tipping his head back to look at Jorah upon his stallion. “I daresay it’s been a long time since you fucked a woman there. We don’t want your cock to fall off when it’s exposed.”

Jorah’s hand twitches towards his greatsword, as it frequently does whenever Tyrion’s mouth moves. If it was from anyone else she would find it offensive, but this is Tyrion. He rarely does anything without a dash of offense. No one is exempt, and that includes her.

Jorah is just easier to rile than anyone else.

“Just make sure you get it in that wet warmth nice and quickly,” her Hand continues. “I’m sure our queen will help you out with that if you need it...”

Behind him, Varys pulls a revolted face. He’s accepted her choice of Jorah, but Daenerys knows that it still makes him uneasy, the exile knight not good enough for a queen. She’s just glad he’s never made any trouble about it. They don’t need in-fighting as well. All of the others had been overjoyed for them—even Tyrion, once he’d put aside what his head was telling him.

“It’s far from bloody perfect,” he told them, reaching across the table for the decanter of wine. “The queen bedding the disgraced knight? People won’t like it. You’d do better with a prince, or with someone of high noble birth. Jon Snow would have been perfect, if your brother hadn’t been so bloody selfish.”

“You won’t change my mind,” she stated.

“I know that. Which is why I’m not going to argue with you. I don’t fancy becoming Drogon’s next meal. And I suppose it’ll be good for Mormont.” Tyrion raised his goblet in a toast. “He’s been such a miserable bastard for years. Fucking you has put a smile on his face for the first time. And it’s been a drag sharing company with a bear with a sore head. He doesn’t know what a joke is, and I happen to have a hundred very good ones to share.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Jorah growled, ears reddening; Daenerys knew that he was embarrassed himself as much as it was about him defending his queen’s honour. He’d never been comfortable around Tyrion’s bawdiness. Nor was he likely to want to talk about his sex life with him.

Tyrion held his hands up. “What would you like me to call it, then? Making love? Do you like that better?”

Jorah scowled, fingers twitching. Daenerys rested her hand on his forearm to stop him from leaning across and throttling the little lion.

“None of that is your business,” she told him.

“Making love it is,” said Tyrion saluting them with his glass. “Gods, that’s disgusting. At least if it was fucking I could comfort myself that you were just using him sexually. Now I’m going to have to accept that you actually care for him, aren’t I?”

“I do care for him.”

Tyrion softened. “It was always going to be a problem. I knew that from the beginning. I saw your face when you sent him away. You took my advice then, but I saw it hurt you. And you didn’t heed that advice when you were alone. You listened to your heart.”

“A queen should rule with her heart sometimes.”

“Yes, I suppose she should. And if you hadn’t taken the miserable old bastard back, you wouldn’t be here now, and we wouldn’t be working towards a better world. What do you intend to do now?”

It was Jorah who had spoken up next, swift as a bird. “I don’t want anything to jeopardise Daenerys’ reign.”

Tyrion snickered. “Unfortunately, that ship sailed when you dipped your cock in her.”

Daenerys held her head high. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Shame is the last thing I would accuse you of. I know you stick to your beliefs. It’s an admirable quality. But you can’t deny it causes problems too. People won’t like this. They will believe you’re sullying yourself and snubbing them. There’s never been an anointed knight from a lowly house as a consort before.”

“No, it’s always Targaryens or Starks or Lannisters or Baratheons,” said Daenerys. “I meant it when I said I would break the wheel. The great houses are the spokes. They shouldn’t trample the smaller ones. I intend to make it known that the old world will be gone for good. And I can’t have children. So the succession will not continue as it has done for centuries with one house usurping another. Why shouldn’t they start to see the changes with my choice of consort?”

Still, they’d ultimately decided to keep it quiet for the time being. Her household know, and she had pressed a letter into Jon’s hand after his last visit, making him swear to keep the contents to himself. It will come out in time, but she had agreed that it would be best not to disturb a fragile peace. The country was still mending, learning to trust. She had to help it. Queen before woman.

But time has passed. Westeros is beginning to recover. And she can be a woman as well as a queen.

“Tell Bronn that he’s not to spend any money while I’m gone,” Missandei calls from the back of her horse. “I’m not coming back to find he’s spent it all in the pleasure houses.”

Varys rolls his eyes. “You’re trusting Tyrion with that? Our Lord Hand will likely be there with him. While the dragon is away, the lion will play.”

“Not if he doesn’t want to be roasted alive when I return,” Daenerys retorts. “I shall trust _you_ to report all of his activities to me.”

Varys bows deeply, smiling that oily smile. Tyrion by contrast, throws his hands up in exasperation.

“You’d sell me out when we’re supposed to be friends?” he argues.

“I serve the realm,” Varys intones.

“Am I never to fuck a woman again!?” Tyrion proclaims.

“I want you thinking with your mind, not your cock,” she says. She hasn’t failed to notice that the last whore she caught him with had had flaming red hair and bright blue eyes, much like the Queen in the North. And the less done about that, the better.

“You’ve been spending too much time with a coarse old northerner if you speak like that,” Tyrion says sourly, a sore loser in this. “It’ll be like you’ve never gone.”

“That’s the plan,” she says breezily. “Rule well in my stead. I have every faith in you all.”

Another bow from Varys, a hesitant nod from Sam. Daenerys isn’t worried. She has good people around her. People who genuinely want to make the world a better place. Who share her vision.

“Have a good time!” Tyrion shouts after them as they begin to trot away. “I’ll think of you freezing your balls off in the snow!”

Jorah mutters something uncouth under his breath.

\-- --

Riding is freeing in a way that even being astride Drogon isn’t. Then, she’s always alone. Even when Jorah rides Rhaegal—always reluctantly, which makes her smile—she is alone. Jorah seems much more preoccupied with holding on for dear life than he does savouring the experience.

It’s different on horseback. Jorah showed he was adept when they lived with the Dothraki, always the first to help her down or show her how to grip the horse’s sides to get it to respond to her commands. He fought from horseback on the Long Night, no small feat. They are equal here. Side by side. As it should be.

They’ve finally left King’s Landing behind and are out on the open road. They were waved off by the common folk, who cheered and waved the Targaryen sigil. Jorah had once told her that no one cared who sat the Iron Throne, and she does not doubt that, but she is showing them a better way of life. A rule of kindness, not of ruthlessness. Of love and respect. Accessible to all. There to protect them and to serve them.

But it’s nice to leave the heavy crown behind for a while. To be Daenerys the woman, alongside Jorah the man. She encourages her horse a little closer to his, leans across to touch his rough hands on the reins.

“Let’s ride on our own for a while,” she says.

“Khaleesi?”

“Come on,” she needles. “You know you want to.” It’s plain to see in his eyes. They rarely get any time alone in the day, with her duties as queen and his as lord commander.

Jorah glances over his shoulder at the rest of their party. “Is that such a good idea?”

“I’ve sent the Dothraki ahead to make a start on our camp for the night. We’re not going to go any further than that. They’ll catch us up.”

“And what if someone attacks us? There are madmen about who would relish the chance to kill the queen.”

“I have every faith that we’ll beat them back together. We have our swords.” Her hand instinctively moves to its hilt, to the smooth, dark brown bear decorating its hilt, its mouth open in a roar. Jorah’s has an obsidian dragon head on his, with glittering ruby eyes not unlike Drogon’s. He’s painstakingly careful with ensuring it’s always shining, which makes her heart contract. “We make a very good team.” They do, moving as one, as if they can read each other’s minds. She’s almost certain they can at times.

“Please,” she says, then adds after a beat, tongue firmly in cheek, “I am your queen. I command you come with me.”

“Well,” he rasps, “I can’t disobey a direct order, can I?”

“It would be treason.”

“I quite like my head.”

“I quite like it too.”

“So it would serve both of us well if I obeyed.”

“It would.” She leans across her horse to press a quick kiss to his cheek, relishing the prickle of stubble against her lips. His mouth curves upwards. She loves how easily he smiles now.

“Then I am yours to command, Khaleesi.”

“Good.” She wheels her horse round, calls in Valyrian to the nearest Unsullied soldier. “Ser Jorah and I are going to go on ahead. Continue on as you are and meet us at the camp.”

“Yes, My Queen,” he replies.

She’s forever thankful that the Unsullied never object. Tossing a grin in Jorah’s direction, she digs her heels into her horse’s flanks and spurs the sturdy little mare along. She hears Jorah’s shout behind her, his voice urging his own stallion on. The ground trembles beneath her as he catches up with her, the strength and speed of his horse easily matching hers. She laughs and laughs, standing in her saddle, driving her horse on. She’s a khaleesi once more. And it’s like flying.

\-- --

Early evening falls and finds them settled in their first camp for the night. They mill about in groups, drinking the fermented mare’s milk she hasn’t tasted in so long and eating roasted rabbits freshly caught.

Daenerys has always felt freer here, with the Dothraki; it’s the first place she felt she belonged. Not a home. But a start.

The Dothraki way of life is much more relaxed than the Westerosi one. She’s shed one of her titles for the time being.

Expectations have gone with it. Here, she can sit round the fire and laugh and joke. Perhaps it’s the fact that she hasn’t drunk the mare’s milk in so long, but her head feels pleasantly buzzed, and she leans against Jorah’s side for support, one hand on his knee. The milk has loosened him too; he reclines leisurely, his arm slung across her shoulder, trading japes in Dothraki with her warriors. She likes to see this side of him, unconcerned with the pressures of their world. She traces her fingernails over his kneecap, and he turns those blue eyes on her, a lazy smile on his face.

It hits her sometimes, in unguarded moments. How she could have been so blind for so long. How she could have hurt him the way she had. How she had wasted years when they could have been so happy in that time.

“What’s wrong?” Jorah murmurs against her ear, breath warm and spicy.

She shakes herself, turning to look up into his face. “I’d like to go for a walk.”

“All right.” He moves away from her to stand, and she misses his warmth at once. One of her Dothraki, Awazzo, makes to rise too, but she waves him away.

“Stay here and enjoy yourself,” she says. “I have Jorah the Andal.”

Awazzo tips his horn of mare’s milk at her and takes another swig.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s go.”

They depart together, through the long grass gently swishing in the cool breeze. They walk in silence. They’ve never needed to fill it with inane chatter. They can simply _be_ together, and it’s never uncomfortable. It always was with Jon. He wasn’t much of a speaker, and she always felt compelled to fill it. Northerners are probably made of the same stuff, because Jorah is the silent type too, but it’s _different_.

“What was on your mind back there?” he asks.

“I didn’t say there was.”

“No. But I know you, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Yes, he does. Better than anyone else in the world. Shares her every triumph and loss, almost every thought in her head as well as her bed.

She’s had physical intimacy on and off for years. Emotional intimacy...it’s been a whole new journey of discovery for her too.

Still, she doesn’t want to fill his head with maudlin thoughts, not when he’s been so relaxed today and he’s been doing better at trusting in what they’ve built between them. So she waits until they’re a safe distance away from the camp, far from any prying eyes, before turning to him.

“The Dothraki think everything that’s important to them should be done beneath the night sky.”

“I know,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I lived with them too, remember.”

She nudges her shoulder against his bicep. “Well, we’re with the Dothraki again now, just like old times.”

“We are.” His voice is as soft as velvet. “They were some of my favourite times.”

It warms her that those times are still so dear to him. He betrayed her then, too, but their friendship started to blossom. He was the only one she had counted as a friend, the only one who made her feel less lonely.

“Things were simpler then, weren’t they?” she muses. “No responsibilities. Just us and the world at our feet.”

“Not quite that simple.”

“I suppose,” she says. Shadow assassins and blood magic and murderous bloodriders. “But anyway, we’re getting off topic. I was trying to say something important.”

“I’m sorry, my queen.”

“Now you’re not taking me seriously.” She pouts, folding her arms across her chest.

“I’d be a fool not to take you seriously. I’ve seen what you can do. Keeping six kingdoms in line is no mean feat, especially getting the people of Westeros to love you.”

“Good,” she says. “But there’s really only one person whose love matters to me.” It’s true. She’d give the throne up for him. At one time she’d never thought that was possible. The Iron Throne was the only thing she’d dreamed about. Men were conquests on the way. But Jorah...real love bloomed there, slowly, like a winter flower, hardy through all storms, the roots deeply engrained.

“Well, I’m glad,” he freely admits. “And you have my love, Khaleesi. Always. No matter what happens. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“And you will always have mine,” she promises. “I swear it to the Mother of Mountains and the Great Stallion.”

Her hands move to the ties on her riding clothes. Jorah’s eyes widen.

“Khaleesi, what are you doing?”

“What I said earlier. Celebrating what means the most under the stars.”

He’s blushing like a green boy. “Someone will see you.”

“It’s the way of life for them,” she reminds him. “You’ve seen it too.” Men and women mating for all to watch and see. He’s lived his life; she’s sure he saw some of it and didn’t look away.

“But you’re the queen of the six kingdoms.”

“And I’m also Khaleesi of the greatest khalasar the world has ever seen. Khals mate beneath the stars. Why shouldn’t we?”

“It’s different in Westeros.”

“And we’re not in King’s Landing anymore. Everyone is back at camp. The Dothraki wouldn’t care. It’s just you and me and the stars.”

She knows he’s wavering; his eyes trace down over the swell of her bosom where she plays with her riding clothes. Pressing her advantage, she lifts the top a few inches, revealing her pale stomach. He swallows hard.

“Daenerys,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.

She pulls her top over her head.

He lunges towards her. Smothers her laugh of triumph with his mouth over hers, his hands moving up to cover her breasts.

Their legs tangle and they sink backwards onto the hard ground, hands scrabbling at each other’s layers. Daenerys pushes at his chest and rolls them over, hitching her leg over his, catching his mouth in another fierce kiss. He moans, arching, and she feels the same rush of power she does when she rides Drogon. Tonight she is a khaleesi and she will take what is hers with warmth and love.

\-- --

Afterwards, they lay tangled together, sticky skin against sticky skin. Jorah presses a kiss to her hairline, tightening his arms around her. Now that their passion is done, Daenerys feels the needling cold keenly, and slowly pulls away with an apologetic kiss to his chin.

“We should get back,” she says. “We’ve been missing a while.”

“Aye, you’re right,” he replies. He eases himself to his feet with a groan. “Gods, I’m getting too old to be frolicking outside.”

She pauses in the middle of shimmying into her horsehair trousers to give him the onceover. “I don’t think anything about that performance gave your age away, ser.”

He laughs, securing his sword belt in place. “I’m glad to serve, Your Grace.”

“You serve very well,” she purrs. “Your queen is most pleased with you.”

They redress in silence after that, sneaking glances at each other every so often. Daenerys feels her mouth upturning again in a smile. She can’t help herself. She feels like a giddy child all over again. In fact, she’s never felt like this in her whole life. Jorah makes her feel things she never imagined she’d feel.

As they trek through the fields back towards the camp, Daenerys slips her hand into his, suddenly overwhelmed by the surge of affection swirling around inside her. He glances down at her, eyebrow quirked.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Us.”

“Sounds ominous.”

She squeezes him. “It’s not. I’m just relishing the opportunity to spend some time with you alone outside the confines of King’s Landing.”

“We don’t get it very often, do we?” he agreed. “It’s not a complaint. Any time spent with you is a gift. But in King’s Landing...”

In King’s Landing they’re queen and knight. He serves from a respectable distance. She treats him as she would the Lord Commander of her Queensguard. He shadows her, never close enough to touch. Propriety ruling all. Never her heart.

He’s understanding of it. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t make her ache, that she’s forcing him into something he can’t control or change. Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have bouts of sullenness lamenting over the situation they find themselves in.

Which is why she plans to challenge it.

Break another spoke on the wheel.

“We’ll be back to society soon enough,” she says. “So I intend to enjoy our time travelling with the Dothraki.”

They walk a few more paces, and Daenerys reaches up impulsively, stretching on her tiptoes to press her mouth to his stubbled cheek. It’s rough beneath her lips and she nuzzles against him for good measure. When she pulls away, she finds him blushing.

“What was that for?” he asks, sounding very pleased. The stars twinkle above them, shadowing the handsome, Valyrian steel lines of his jaw.

“Nothing,” she responds. “Nothing at all.”

\-- --

The days spent riding in the saddle are enjoyable, the nights spent riding Jorah are even more so.

Sleeping outside with Jorah upon the pile of furs is different to sharing a bed with him. The softness of the fur against her naked skin contrasting with Jorah’s scarred, mangled flesh makes her shiver.

There’s a freeness to it she hasn’t known for years. A headiness about being away from the throne and the stranglehold of the kingdom. Daenerys almost feels like they’ve gone back in time, back to those heady early days where they could barely keep their hands off each other, desperate to make up for the lost years.

They don’t do much sleeping.

Daenerys enjoys the way the scenery changes day by day. The vibrant, wild greens give way to murky browns and dull greys. They stop off at each village and hamlet they come across, Daenerys determined to give no one cause to complain that she is above her station. Children sweep about her skirts, tugging at her hands and pawing at her riding skins. They dance around Jorah’s feet, fearless, clamouring to see his sword. He’s good with children, she can’t deny that; he lets them make demands with good grace, basking in the cheers he gets as he unsheathes Dragonsong, the black blade glimmering in the sunlight. They follow the Dothraki around, touching their braids and the bells in their hair. This amuses them greatly, and she hears them japing about it in their mother tongue, still not used to these strange Westerosi ways and these people who are not fierce warriors.

Occasionally Drogon makes an appearance and he _does_ make children and adults alike run for cover, though never for long; the curiosity at seeing one of the greatest sights the world has seen for centuries is far too enticing to resist. They creep out and spy from a safe distance. Some of the bolder children, destined to be soldiers, scurry up to her, lurking behind her as they soak up the gleaming obsidian scales and the blood-red eyes.

Daenerys makes sure she never rushes or brushes people off. She remembers Jorah’s advice from all those years ago, how the common folk have little care who lives in the Red Keep. She respects that, but she wants them to know that she is different. That she _does_ care about their wellbeing. That they’re not just numbers in the army. That she intends to serve and protect them.

So they sit around campfires made by the commonfolk, eating roasted chickens, drinking pisspoor ale. She listens to their concerns and answers them. She laughs and joins in with the dancing and the games. She dances with everyone, from the smallest child to the oldest man.

She makes sure she saves a dance for her lord commander, who holds her with careful restraint and professionalism, just another number to the outside world.

The nights spent in inns are the worst. Jorah can’t be by her side then, and she tosses and turns through the night, missing the firm warmth of him on the bed beside her.

Sometimes queens have to make sacrifices, and in those moments she loathes her crown.

\-- --

And, at last, her entourage arrives at Winterfell.

The Starks are outside waiting for them, Sansa dressed in fine grey wools, Bran swaddled all in black, Jon in his usual armour. Their household gathers around them.

She keeps back while Arya greets her family, throwing herself into Jon’s arms. Jon gathers her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek. They’re each other’s favourite, it’s plain to see.

Daenerys gives them a few minutes then slides off her horse, straightening her spine into her usual regal pose. Not that it makes any difference. Sansa Stark towers above her, haughty queen in the north.

“Queen Daenerys,” she says, all loathsome superiority. The years and independence haven’t really made Daenerys warm to the frigid ice queen who often uses Jon as a weapon between them. Still she forces a smile.

“Queen Sansa,” she says. “It’s most gracious of you to host us.”

“Of course. The Queen of the Six Kingdoms is most welcome here.”

Another dig to remind her of the north’s superiority. She just about manages to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.

“We’ve had a long journey today,” she says instead. “I wonder if you might be kind enough to show us to our quarters?”

“I’ll do it,” Jon offers quickly, evidently sensing the bristling in his cousin. He steps forward and puts his arms around her. “It’s good to see you, Dany. Truly.”

The embrace is awkward, exactly how she imagines it is when a pair are lovers only to discover they are close relatives. It’s not too bad spending time with him once the initial greetings are over, but Daenerys doubts it will ever really change. They’ve crossed a line that can’t easily be redrawn. It’s easier for her, spending her whole childhood believing one day she would be Viserys’ sister-wife, but the north abhors incest and she knows Jon struggled to reconcile his feelings and their familial tie.

They break apart quickly, and Jon glances over her shoulder to meet Jorah’s eyes.

“Ser Jorah,” he says, all stiff formality, “I hope the south is treating you well.”

“Aye, it is,” he responds.

Jon grins, his eyes flickering back to her briefly. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He moves forwards, extending his hand, and Jorah does the same. The two men shake hands firmly, and Jon gives him a nod. She spies Longclaw still belted at his waist, but there’s no longing in Jorah’s gaze anymore. He loved that sword, there’s no doubting that, and she’s sure that there will always be a panging of melancholy when he looks at it, for it was in the Mormont family for generations, but she hopes that Dragonsong will give him the chance to forge new traditions. Children aren’t something they can have together, but there are other ways of passing things down the generations.

“How is it north of here?” Jorah asks.

“Cold,” Jon jokes. “But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

It would have been difficult to convince him to stay south with her. Jon _is_ in his element here, bundled up in furs with his long, curly hair dusted with frost. He wouldn’t have suited southern finery like Jorah does. He adapts wherever he is.

“Well, we can continue these conversations at dinner,” says Sansa, evidently bored with the polite exchanges. “Let’s get back inside. We wouldn’t want the southern queen to freeze to death out here.”

“I have fire in my blood,” she retorts, trying to keep her tone cordial. “The cold won’t get me.”

Sansa barely refrains from rolling her eyes, and Daenerys counts it as a victory. Smiling slightly to herself, she follows the Starks inside.

Winterfell is never much warmer. The draughts whistle through those old stone corridors, and even with fires burning in every grate it’s difficult to get warm.

Sansa bids them goodbye at the door to the great hall, with the promise of entertaining them at dinner. Daenerys is grateful to see her go.

Stewards direct the rest of her companions to their quarters, but Jon takes charge of her personally, his hand ghosting her back as they go, Jorah shadowing their every step.

“I trust my instructions were carried out,” she says as they go.

Jon shoots her a sidelong glance. “They were. It raised a few eyebrows, though.”

“Eyebrows that I hope you lowered again.”

“I gave it my best. Said that it was natural that the queen would want her lord commander nearby. Let’s hope no one notices you don’t have a guard at night.”

“They won’t,” she says confidently. “And I doubt anyone likes me enough to care.”

“That’s not fair,” Jon protests.

“We both know the north has no love for me. I was tolerated only because I had armies and dragons to fight the dead.”

“We marched south with you.”

“They marched south with _you_.”

“You were my queen.”

“No longer. Sansa is your queen, is she not?”

Jon scowls at her. “Your quarters, Your Grace. I trust you can find your way inside.”

He gives a stiff bow and walks away. Jorah moves up beside her, his own hand grazing the small of her back. Perhaps a little possessive? She hides her smile. Bears don’t like sharing their honey, especially with ex-lovers. Even if said ex-lover is also her nephew.

“You were rather harsh with the boy,” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“They say the north remembers,” she retorts. “So do dragons. The north _doesn’t_ like me. And I gave my armies to them. I lost countless good warriors with no thanks. I accept it but I don’t _like_ it. My men’s lives were not worth less than ones here in Westeros. They deserved to be honoured and thanked for what they did. _We_ deserved to be thanked. If it wasn’t for us, the north wouldn’t stand. _Westeros_ wouldn’t stand.”

“The Princess Who was Promised,” he murmurs against her ear.

Daenerys rolls her eyes, but can’t contain her smile. “Go and find your quarters, ser. I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” he said, dropping into a short bow. She socks him on the shoulder as he squeezes past her, but she’s grinning harder, for she loves the more relaxed side of him that only she gets to see.

She waits until he’s rounded the corner before she enters her own chambers.

\-- --

The day passes quickly. She takes the expected tour of Winterfell, nodding at sullen northerners who barely give her a cursory glance in return. They’re an ungrateful bunch, but she holds her tongue. They dislike her enough as it is, the foreign, self-made queen from Essos; she will not give them any more cause. Kill them with kindness, that’s the way to go; at the end of the trip she’ll still hold the moral high ground.

The feast is fit for any queen, though Daenerys isn’t fool enough to believe it’s in celebration of her. No, it’s simply to show off the richness of Winterfell, to show her that it prospers without her.

Still, she enjoys it. There’s laughter and music, general raucousness. She enjoys the rich meat and the hardy northern roots, the poor wine burning her throat. There’s dancing in the hall too, lively old tunes played with great gusto. Members of Sansa’s household mingle there, dancing dances Daenerys has never seen before.

The great hall is warm with the amount of bodies crammed in there, and she feels pleasantly buzzed with the alcohol she’s consumed. She makes small talk with Sansa, but her focus is soon distracted by Jorah, who is sitting a few places to her left. He’s had just the one cup of ale. He won’t touch a drop more, she knows that, for he will want to ensure he has his wits about him. Lover he may be, but he’s also Lord Commander of her Queensguard and he will never allow himself to become complacent. Affection surges through her. She’ll never find a better man.

That same affection spurs her on to rise. There’s dancing going on on the cramped floorspace beneath them, between the benches teeming with Stark bannermen. She likes dancing. Doesn’t get to do it very often, and certainly not with Jorah. Normally it’s with highborn lords, and she wouldn’t usually have the courage to dance with Jorah in front of them. Eyes would be on them constantly, judging, whispering.

She has no fear of them now.

Downing the last dregs of her wine, she excuses herself from Sansa’s dull wittering and stands. Jorah’s eyes find hers at once. She keeps her head high as she walks towards him. He rises himself, eyes alive with concern.

“What’s wrong, Khaleesi?” he asks, his hand moving to the hilt of Dragonsong, a subtle movement she does not miss.

“Nothing,” she reassures him quickly. “Dance with me, ser?”

He blinks. “Khaleesi?”

“Dance with me,” she repeats.

“Are you sure?” he asks lowly, gaze shifting to assess those around them.

“I’m very sure,” she says. “The queen is going to have a dance with her lord commander. There’s nothing scandalous about it.”

“Some might not agree with you.”

“They would if they come face-to-face with Drogon.”

“Daenerys...”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m _joking_ , Jorah.”

She sees the shadow of a smile on his face. “I know. And it would be my honour.”

“Then honour me,” she says, extending her hand towards him. He hesitates for only a moment more before taking it. She’s in his shadow, dwarfed by his height, and her heart flutters in her chest when he brushes his thumb subtly over her knuckles.

They make their way towards the rough dancefloor, where the pounding feet of the northerners prevail. It’s like a battle there, fierce and without grace, but Jorah takes it easily in his stride. He’s from the north, after all. He sweeps her into the throng with ease, as commanding as he is with his troops. She can barely keep up with the pace of his feet, and lets him sweep her around the makeshift area. He always says that he’s as good at dancing as an actual bear would be, but he does himself a disservice. He has grace and charm, and she finds herself drawn to him, violet to azure, locked intimately in their own private moment. His hand eclipses hers, his hand respectable on her back. She wishes he would drop it to her waist, hold her there, possessive, _hers_. But he won’t. He’s too much of a gentleman. Too careful. Lord Commander and nothing more.

By the time the music stops she’s sweating, wisps of hair plastered to her forehead, panting for breath. Around her the others clap and cheer, and Jorah steps away from her. She dips in a curtsey.

“Thank you, ser,” she says.

“You’re welcome, Khaleesi. Now, I ought to return to my post. I have no wish to bring gossip down on your head.”

Before she can utter a word he bows respectfully and muscles his way through the crowd, leaving her standing there alone, frowning at his back. It was not an unkind dismissal, and she knows he means no malice, but it stings nonetheless. The crown weighs heavily for all, and it’s there on her head even when it isn’t. It hurts and frustrates in equal measures that it prevents her from being who she truly is with him because she is dedicated to the realm. Varys would prefer she have no distractions at all, but she’s had his uneasy acceptance for two years.

She wants more than that. She doesn’t want to have just the throne for company. She doesn’t want to be the untouchable sovereign, unobtainable and unobtaining. Forever expected to be alone, never to let the world know that she’s in love.

She _won’t_ let that be the end of it. She is here to break the wheel in all respects.

Love is not the death of duty, and she is determined to prove that.

\-- --

The celebrations wind down in the wee hours of the morning. Drunken Winterfell dwellers stumble to their beds; others escort equally drunk women, intent on prolonging the night further with sex which they undoubtedly wouldn’t enjoy if they were sober. Daenerys is more grateful than ever for Jorah’s restraint. He would never disappoint her in any capacity, professional or personal.

The man in question is lingering in the doorway now as the last stragglers stumble past him.

“Would you like me to escort you to your chambers, Your Grace?” he asks, all stiff formality even though the only person to hear them is Jon. Cautious in any capacity, that’s her knight.

She waves it away. “No, ser. I wish to speak with Jon first.”

“I can wait for you.”

“Nonsense. Go to bed. No harm will come to me.”

Jorah doesn’t look convinced, and she bites back a giggle. Her bear is untrusting even in the familiar north. Not that she can blame him for that. He wouldn’t be doing his duty if he didn’t worry about her safety, that’s what he’d say. Her heart aches a little at the thought. Lord Commander first, man second. Duty the death of love.

“Jon will escort me back to my chambers when we’re done.” She turns to him. “Won’t you?”

“Of course,” says Jon. He looks to Jorah. “You don’t have to worry.”

Jorah doesn’t look entirely persuaded, but he’s never one to argue with her in front of other people. So he dips his head in deference.

“I won’t be long,” she promises him. “I’ll join you soon enough.”

Pink spills into his cheeks and he ducks his head further. She knows he’s still not used to the idea of others knowing about them. Hopefully that will change soon.

When the door closes on them, Daenerys reaches across the table for the jug of wine. She refills her own and offers it to Jon. He shakes his head, covering the top of his goblet.

“Better not,” he says. “I’ve had enough.”

She shrugs and takes a swig of her own to fortify her nerves. “Thank you for staying behind.”

“Of course. What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Two things: first, I’m sorry if I offended you earlier.”

He shrugs. “Think nothing of it. I’ve heard worse in my time. Growing up a bastard, you get used to the insults. No doubt you’ve heard more than your fair share too.”

“I have,” she concedes. “Still, it doesn’t make it right.”

“You don’t like the north,” he notes.

“I don’t. That’s not your fault.”

“Still, I’m sorry for it. You did a lot for the north. You could have ignored my plea. You didn’t. You lost good men. The north has suffered a lot at the hands of southerners, particularly Lannisters.”

“And Targaryens,” she says grimly.

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“As much my fault as yours. Still, I’m the one bearing the reminder.”

“I bear the name too.”

She hears the bite in his words, possibly the smallest hint of reproach. He took the Targaryen name for her, she knows it. The reminder for the north that he is a Targaryen too, even if they might not want to acknowledge it. She knows he’d rather have taken the Stark name, to be fully integrated in the family he’s always longed to be a part of. The Targaryen name sets him apart again, as much as Snow did. It’s ironic, really. No one would give him a second glance when he was the bastard son of Eddard Stark with three trueborn brothers around him. Now that two were dead and one but a shadow, they were all too eager to clamour around him and proclaim him the king in the north. All too eager to forget his heritage and the way they had treated him.

Now he’s neither a king nor a Stark. A rogue Targaryen, the heir that refused the crown. The first step forward in creating a new regime.

Still, she shouldn’t quarrel with him over it, so she bites her tongue.

Jon is apparently grateful for that, for he swiftly changes the subject. “You say the north has no love for you, but that’s not true. I love you, and so does another.”

“Jon...”

“Not as a lover,” he clarifies. “Though the gods know it was confusing. But you’re family too, and it’s nice to know I’m not alone. I will always support you, you have my word.”

It _is_ nice to know that he thinks on her so. Viserys was the only family she ever knew, and his way of loving her was to be cruel. To have someone who loves her with softness...it’s a nice feeling.

Of course, nothing is nicer than the feeling she gets from Jorah’s enduring love.

Her thoughts must show on her face. Jon’s eyes soften. “Ser Jorah is a good man.”

“I’m sorry we’ve never spoken face to face about it...”

“It’s all right. It’s none of my business.”

“Not everyone sees it that way.” Varys certainly doesn’t, and he’s spent the last two years afraid that the rest of Westeros won’t either.

She’s tired of being afraid.

“I intend to make our arrangement public knowledge.”

“I thought as much. There was only one reason you’d want me to stay behind.”

Which is unfair, but Daenerys brushes it off. “I’ve heard the opinion of my small council. I’ve heard Ser Jorah’s opinion. Now I want yours. You’re not an outsider, but you have a measured approach.”

Jon mulls it over for a moment. “In all honesty, I can’t say I was surprised when I read your letter. I was there when he returned to you, remember. I saw the way you were together. And the happiness in your voice and the way you held him...” He shakes his head. “I thought there was something there.”

“There was,” she admits. “I just didn’t realise it at the time. Jorah has always been a good friend to me. And I’ve always loved him in my own way. I just couldn’t see that it could be more than what it was. And then...”

“Then you realised,” Jon says gently. There’s no accusation in his tone. They both know it could never have worked. They were strangers, really, who had come together in a clumsy, hopeful search of a home in each other. They were never going to find that, Daenerys knows it now. And she’s glad that she saw the truth of it before it was too late.

“Ser Jorah is a good man,” Jon repeats. “I saw that for myself when he offered to go beyond the wall to capture a wight. He was a valuable asset. I tried to return Longclaw to him, but he refused. Said that he’d disappointed his father and it was mine to wield. I knew from then he was one of a kind. I’m glad my father—my uncle—never caught up to him. And I’m glad he makes you happy. I really am. You could have chosen a worse man. He’s not going to conspire against you for power. He’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. He’s brave and just, exactly what everyone should have. And politically it’s a good move. It keeps the north tied to the south in some way.”

“I don’t know about that. Jorah would be the first to dismiss the idea. House Mormont is tiny, and besides, I have no interest in political alliances.”

“True,” Jon concedes. “If you were, you would have married into another northern house, like the Umbers. Or me.”

“You wouldn’t have been happy married to me,” she says. “You’ve grown up despising incest, and I want to learn from past mistakes.”

He doesn’t dispute it. “The Mormonts are a small house, but they are fiercely loyal. They were the first to rally to my cause. They love the north. Ser Jorah is the only surviving male heir in the line, so it’s certainly not a bad idea to keep on good terms with such a loyal house. Ser Jorah’s ties to you and to his house can only ensure civility if nothing else.”

“And what of the other high lords?”

Jon considers it for a moment. “It won’t please everyone. You know that as well as I do. There will be lords who believe only they are worthy of your hand, but they want the power, to influence you, to clip your wings. Ser Jorah would never do that. He wants what’s best for you, that’s plain to see. And you’ve already implemented changes in the way that you welcome the common people to you. Everyone needs to understand that the world you’re building is changing. For the better.”

“So you’ll add your voice to the crowd when I make the announcement?”

“Aye, I will. I promise, Dany. But at the end of the day, you have to do what you need to do. You’re not harming anyone, apart from a few high lords’ prides. Ser Jorah is well respected for his bravery on the Long Night. And I think it will do people good to see a relationship of love instead of political alliance, especially someone not considered one of the big players. Just make sure you keep the lines of communication open and listen to all concerns, even if you might not want to.”

“Thank you, Jon. I appreciate it. I do.”

“I just want you to be happy. I can see that Ser Jorah does that.”

Jon will never truly know just how much. The _world_ will never truly know. It will only have a glimpse of what goes on between them.

“And on that note,” says Jon, glancing at the candle burning lower and lower in its holder, wax dripping down the sides, “I think we should get to bed. We’ll never be up if we don’t, and the kitchen girls will be waiting to get in here to tidy up.”

Dany pulls herself to her feet and waits for Jon to follow. They say little as he escorts her up to the quarters reserved for her. She bids him a goodnight and slips inside.

The fire crackles merrily in the dark, a fine contrast to the wind howling outside and rattling the windows. It casts long fingers over the walls, caressing the stone with shadows.

Jorah sits in those shadows; he stirs when she closes the door behind her. His armour clinks, and she rolls her eyes in exasperated affection.

“You should have got yourself comfortable,” she scolds.

“You might have needed me.”

“What, as protection from Jon? He was perfectly respectable, I assure you.”

Jorah grunts, pushing himself to his feet. “I didn’t mean that. I know Jon is a good man.”

“And he isn’t about to sweep me off my feet.”

“I never thought he would,” Jorah grumbles, but she knows the latent doubt is still there in the back of his mind, and likely always will be while their relationship is kept under wraps. Any new suitor sniffing about is a rival in his eyes, and a better match at that, no matter how differently she might feel.

It’s another reason why she has to make a change.

“Well, I’m back now,” she says. “So you can rest now, my knight. Let me help you get more comfortable.”

He huffs again, but she smiles as he complies immediately, moving across the room into her vicinity. She’s practiced at dismantling his armour now, and she works diligently as any squire, taking him apart piece by piece. She places it on the dresser, until he’s a man again.

“Now help me,” she says, presenting the ties on her dress to him. His fingers are clumsy on the delicate knots, but he presses soft kisses to the side of her neck as he pulls them free. His scruff tickles pleasantly. Missandei was the best handmaiden she had ever had, but even she can’t compare to Jorah’s touch. He simply knows how to touch her to make her melt against him, more fire than his icy roots belie.

At last the dress falls to the floor, and she turns in his arms, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him, pulling him further down to her level. She feels the silk of his tongue against hers before he pulls away.

“Khaleesi,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” she breathes, nuzzling her nose against his throat.

“If someone sees—”

“And who will see? I’ve instructed no member of Sansa’s household to wait on me here. Missandei will come for us in the morning.”

“And if someone comes looking for me?”

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, a flirtatious look she knows he can’t resist. “Tell them you went exploring.”

“Daenerys,” he groans, a warning, and she laughs, guiding his hand from her waist upwards. His breath hitches again when he brushes her breast, and she knows he’s lost the battle then; in the next moment he’s sweeping her up into his arms and she’s laughing, and she’s never been so happy.

\-- --

The fire pops and crackles. After cleaning himself up, Jorah had fed it a few more logs to keep it burning through the night.

He’s asleep now, but Dany finds that the same peace eludes her. So she props herself up on her elbow, studying her lover’s face in the shadows that dance in curling circles across his features.

He’s beautiful. It hits her all over again, tightens her throat. The Valyrian steel cut of his jaw. The perfect definition of his cheekbones. The stubble that dusts his face, grey flecking the ginger, the curls at the nape of his neck fluffing pleasantly against her nose when she presses herself there. He’s still in fantastic shape, lean from years of swordplay, and muscled in all the right places, broad-shouldered and lithe. The scars that mar every inch of his skin are not loathsome to her, as they might be to other simple women, but are physical proof of the endurance of his love. His chest rises and falls with his steady breathing, his mouth slightly open in repose. His arm is flung open in invitation to her, perfect for her snuggling up to his side. But she resists the urge to do so for now, in favour of cataloguing him, of reflecting. She had never imagined that she could love anyone the way she loves him. True vulnerability with a lover, baring all of her flaws as well as her strength. Truly unarmouring herself for the first time.

She loves him. And she will not hide it from the rest of Westeros for much longer. Whatever storm that may follow, she will weather it. After all, she is a dragon.

\-- --

On their last day before they’re due to leave Winterfell, Daenerys bids Jorah come with her.

They trek together through the snow, outside of Winterfell’s boundaries. She senses that he knows her destination.

The spot where it all began. Where he lay dying in her arms and she began to realise that he meant more to her than she had ever been able to comprehend.

She says nothing, but Jorah senses it. He comes up behind her, warm and strong at her back. His arms go around her waist, brave in the isolation, his silent reminder that he is where he’s always pledged to be: by her side.

But she doesn’t want to be maudlin. She wants to be spurred on, filled with delight at the wonder of his survival and the birth of everything they’ve had in the last two years. She is a hardy little flower, blooming now that the winds of winter have been melted away, the soils no longer saturated with bloodshed. She slips out of his embrace, turns on her heel.

“I know the last time we were here hold unhappy memories,” she says. “We’ve started to make some better ones.”

“We have,” he agrees, his timber as smooth and decadent as dark chocolate. “ _Much_ better ones.”

She knows what he’s alluding to, and gives him a half-hearted flick at his cheek. Not that she can scold him too much. She tingles at the mere memory of his fingers on her skin, as wispy as a ghost. “I want us to make memories that are ours and ours alone. I never slept with Jon when we were here. Those experiences are something only we share.”

“Daenerys,” he says, blushing, and she grins. It amuses her that he can be so matter-of-fact and gruff about every brutality in life, but the moment intimacy is mentioned he turns into a blushing boy. Dragons like to play with their toys occasionally, but she takes pity on him, taking him by the hand and leading him along.

“I did fly with Jon before when we were together,” she admits. “But we flew separately.”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Jorah says.

“No one’s ever ridden on Drogon with me.” She casts a look back in acknowledgement. “At least not when their lives haven’t been in mortal danger. Jon rode on Rhaegal, like you do these days.”

“Khaleesi...” Jorah shakes his head, but there’s a smile on the corners of his mouth. “I know what you have in mind...”

“See? A natural dragonrider,” she teases.

“Drogon might not appreciate it.”

“He grew up around you. He knows you almost as well as he knows me. If I’m the Mother of Dragons, you’re the father.”

He snorts. “Now you do mock me.”

“Only a little,” she concedes. “But there’s a grain of truth in it. You’re the only man alive to have seen baby dragons. Viserion used to ride on your shoulder, do you remember?”

“And Drogon used to nip me,” he says. “Used to bloody hurt.”

“He was showing affection.”

“He drew blood. I thought I was going to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was barely worse than a cat bite.”

“I’ve known sellswords to die from that.”

“Good job you have the strength of ten mainlanders, then. A dragon bite isn’t going to kill you.” She tips him a wink. “I thought you liked being bitten by the dragon.”

His fingertips drift up to the base of his neck, where the imprint of her teeth marks his skin, a symbol of her passion and his prowess. “Well, I suppose that’s true. But you’re the only dragon I want to be marked by.”

She turns away to hide her smirk. She’d thought he might like that. And he can be so charming too, beneath his gruff bear-like exterior. A honey-tongued bear.

“So, what do you say?” she asks, returning to the matter at hand. “Shall Drogon take us for a fly?”

“I’m never able to deny you anything. If you wish it, Khaleesi, we shall do it.”

“Very good choice, ser,” she says, craning her neck upwards to look for her precious Drogon. Almost as if he knows she’s thinking of him he appears, like a great skeletal monster shadowing the whole landscape. He circles a few times before landing a few metres away, the ground shaking with the impact. He roars, spreading those glorious, leathery wings.

He’s fearsome in most people’s views. Blood-red snake eyes, rows upon rows of razorblade teeth, shimmering obsidian scales smoother than glass, fluctuating spines that are enough to pierce skin. Drogon has always been the wildest of her three children, unpredictable, death itself swooping overhead, deciding on its next victim.

But to her he is beautiful. Jon’s assessment of her children being gorgeous beasts had been reluctant at best; she is often the only one who sees the perfection in the terrible monsters.

Jorah’s opinion on her children has changed throughout their journey together. She remembers when they were in Qarth, his urgings to her to abandon the dragons and make their escape. He hadn’t understood then, but he does now.

 _The only children I’ll ever have_ , she thinks, tiny in Drogon’s great presence. Jorah trails at the back of her as she runs her hand along him, the scales warm and smooth beneath her fingertips. Drogon leans his head down towards her, a gust of breath like a hurricane curling from his nostrils. There’s question in his intelligent scarlet eyes.

“ _Drogon, nyke jaelagon naejot sōvegon rūsīr Jorah_ ,” she says.

Her dragon pauses for a moment, then lowers himself to the floor. Acceptance. She grins at Jorah.

“See? He likes you enough to let you on his back.”

“Well, if Drogon is fine with it...” Jorah’s voice tails off as he gazes up at him, but he has a knight’s courage in all aspects. Swallowing hard, he takes the first step forward. Daenerys swings herself up like a monkey, at home here. Jorah is clumsier, but much improved from those early days when painful minutes stretched on as he attempted to scale Rhaegal’s back.

Once he’s seated safely behind her, she gives the command: “ _Sōvegon_.”

And Drogon takes off. The wind rushes through her hair and slaps her face with a stinging voracity. Jorah’s arms tighten around her, instinctive, and she turns her face up to the sky, savouring the whipping against her features. This is perfect. Glorious. All worries gone. She wants to scream at the top of her lungs, to yell from the heavens that she’s in love. Jorah buries his head against her neck, shielding his face from the chill of the wind, and she loves him all the more for it. His arms squeeze her tight around her waist, his way of reassuring himself that he’s not going to fall. He’s not a dragon and will never love riding the way she does, bur the fact that he will endure this for her anyway leaves her heart bloated and full in her chest.

This is what freedom feels like. Far from the constraints of her position and the stranglehold of politics. Just the two of them alone. She urges Drogon on faster, higher, until the oxygen is thin and her head spins. Jorah clings tighter, his body moving into hers with the serpentine ripple of Drogon’s body beneath them.

For a half-mad moment she imagines herself telling Drogon to head for the warmth of Essos, to forget about the weight of the crown and to live on the edge of the world with white sands and blue seas for company.

But she has a responsibility to her people now. These _are_ her people, as much as the Dothraki and the Mereneese. She can’t abandon them in the middle of a transitionary period.

So, reluctantly, she commands him to return to the ground.

Reality crashes back in with the pounding of Drogon’s feet beneath the snow. The fantasy is over. With a heavy heart, she slides from his back. Jorah follows suit, stumbling a little as he hits solid ground.

“How was that?” she asks, pushing her morose thoughts to the back of her mind.

He winces. “It was...an experience.”

“That bad?”

“The first time was worse.”

“You almost fell from Drogon’s back.”

“Aye. And the wildling who has a fancy for Ser Brienne saved me. Gods, I never thought I’d live to see _that_ day. My father spent all of his time as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch trying to keep the wildlings on the other side of the wall. They have no love for Mormonts.”

“ _I’m_ glad he saved you. I would have fed him to Drogon if he hadn’t.” She’d been too distracted and it had happened too quickly for her to fully comprehend, but she had felt the full stifling weight of that on the Long Night a thousand times over. Gods, she’s grateful to them for giving her time to realise just what her feelings meant. How cruel it would have been to have realised that she loved Jorah with every particle of her soul only to have him ripped away from her.

“We should get back,” she says. “We don’t want people wondering where we are.” It’s a wrench to say so, but for the moment at least things have to return to the way they were.

Jorah nods, putting respectable distance once more.

She laments the cold all the way back to Winterfell.

\-- --

On the way to Deepwood Motte for the voyage to Bear Island, they stop at Cerwyn, Torrhen’s Square, travel through the vast Wolfswood. They’re greeted in the same manner everywhere. Gruff indifference hardening on the northerners’ faces like wax on the body of a candle after it’s been extinguished.

“I don’t know what our reception will be like when we reach Bear Island,” Jorah tells her as they stand on deck together, his eyes trained on the horizon. “I dare say it won’t be any better than we’ve received anywhere else. Bear Islanders have little time for finery.”

“What are you implying, ser? That I’m too fine for the lands?”

“No, but...” He seems to be struggling for the wording, tiptoeing around the dragon. “You are beauty and grace, Daenerys. You always have been.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He huffs. “The women of Bear Island...you won’t have met many like them before. They’re not like the Sansa Starks of the north.”

“Thank the gods,” she quips, which raises a reluctant smile, but it soon slips back into sullenness.

“Bear Island women don’t have pretty dresses and pretty hair and pretty voices. They fight and fuck and use foul language like any man.”

“And you think I’m far too delicate for such coarseness.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that.” He scowls out at the tossing waves, a scowl she’s sure he’d like to throw her way but is too cautious to. “They see southron ladies as weak and dull and foolish. That’s how—” Here he breaks off and clamps his jaw closed, the lines as hard as steel. She doesn’t need him to say more. It’s not hard to see where his logic is taking him.

“Your wife,” she says. The thought of her gives her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. It’s ridiculous, really. They’ve both got a history. Jorah stood by and watched her bed three other men in the time they’ve known each other. She supposes it’s strange to think of him as being devoted to another woman the way he’s been devoted to her because she’s not _seen_ it; but she knows he was at some time. The elusive wife who Jorah sold his honour for and who left him anyway.

There’s no denying it: she’s jealous of the former Lady Mormont. She wants that devotion to be hers and hers alone, selfish dragon that she is. Dragons do not do well with sharing. Perhaps it’s that that colours her words with sharpness. “I’m not your Lynesse.”

Jorah starts, finally dragging his gaze to hers. “I never said you were.”

“You’re comparing us in your head,” she says, her tone accusatory. “I don’t compare _you_ with anyone else.”

At that, Jorah’s expression hardens. “You don’t need to. We all know that I’m the one who’s been least worthy of you. Well, I suppose Daario was less worthy because he was the son of a whore, but at least he was exciting.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous!” she hisses.

“Of course I am. I apologise, Your Grace. I must patrol the boat, make sure everything’s in order.” Without giving her chance to deny his leave, he turns on his heel and stalks away, cloak billowing out behind him like a spectre that clings and clings with claws that sink deep into the flesh.

Daenerys opens her mouth to shout him back to her, but changes her mind. That would only infuriate him further, calling him like a dog to heel and not as an equal. Slumping against the railings, she settles for glowering at the sea. Tempers are bound to fray here. They’ve been squashed on this boat for a week now, with no chance to steal a few moments alone. She’s treated him as nothing more than her loyal knight. They’re sleeping apart. She misses his presence in her bunk, and she doubts that he is comfortable, squashed like a sardine with Grey Worm and Awazzo. It’s another illustration of the difference between them, preying on his foolish thoughts.

She should have been wise enough not to bring up Lynesse, either. She has no right to be jealous of a woman he knew before her, and not when he stood silently by for years aching with love for her when she was too blind to see him. She’ll apologise to him. Let him cool down a bit first, though. She is in no mood to entertain a bear’s frustration and doesn’t want to lose her own temper again.

Sighing, Daenerys tilts her head up to the sky. Somewhere high above them, Drogon is soaring, diving through the cold mist of the clouds, no cares in the world. Gods, she wishes she had that luxury.

Alas, she does not. The price for her crown.

She takes heart from the fact that one day soon the cost will have lessened, once her plan has been put in motion.

\-- --

At last, Bear Island comes into view.

Daenerys stands on deck beside Jorah, narrowing her eyes against the sea spray that the wind is blowing into her eyes, eager for her first glimpse of this fabled land.

 _“What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?”_ she remembers asking him all those long years ago, in a dusty tent in the middle of the Dothraki Sea. The longing on his face had been otherworldly.

_“Home.”_

This is his home. This tiny spit of land leagues away from the rest of civilisation. He’d kissed his first girl here, probably bedded her, knows every crevice of this island like she knows the knots and gnarls on his hands. He has memories of this place that she can’t touch.

But, oh, how she longs to. To run her fingers across the leaves he touched as a boy, to imprint the scent of pine in her lungs, to bleed into those memories and fill them with colours that aren’t greyed with regret.

To prove to him that she is no Lynesse Hightower, looking down on this small but proud place with overt distaste. Jorah might refute her qualms, but she knows it lingers in the back of his mind like the darkness that always swallows Asshai.

“It’s not much to look at,” he says now, as if he wants to blunt any potential expectation.

“It looks lovely,” she says, turning to look him in the face so he knows she means it.

“Wait until you arrive on land. We aren’t a rich island. The common folks’ houses are always in need of repair.”

He seems determined to make it sound as bleak as possible. His way of bracing himself for the distaste he imagines is coming. But it infuriates her that he doesn’t see her as any different to the woman he married. It’s not fair. Has she not proven over and over that riches and materialistic items mean nothing to her? She was a child in exile. Bear Island looks like a palace compared to what she had. Finery is something she has no interest in. She feels most comfortable with the Dothraki, he of all people ought to know that.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, lowering her voice so the northern captain at the helm won’t hear her. It’s better to bite her tongue where the former thread is concerned. She does not want to quarrel with him now.

“Fine,” he answers brusquely. An untruth. He’s paler than he ought to be with the wind slapping them in the face, and there’s a haunted sadness about his eyes that hurts to look upon. How she wishes she could slip her hand into his, give him the reassurance he needs.

“Lady Lyanna will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.”

“Doubtful.”

“You are her only surviving family. That means something.”

“I would be more fondly remembered if I had been here to ride south with Robb Stark. I would have died a worthy death in the family’s eyes, at least.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s a fact.” There’s no bitterness in his tone. Latent regret. But nothing else. His apathy unnerves her. Even now, all these years later, he has those griefs.

_Even when he now had her, the woman he swore he loved above all else._

“If you hadn’t taken the path you’d taken, you and I wouldn’t be where we are now,” she says testily.

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is. I don’t wish to hurt you.”

He invariably will. That’s what she’s learned of love. It can be cruel, caustic. A vertical split right through the heart, sliced clean through with a dagger to leave it seeping blood as it beats its last in frantic pulses.

But it can be beautiful too. Nourishing for the soul. The ache will never leave, the scars left behind by missteps never fully fading, but they are marks of prosperity and endurance in the face of the most brutal adversity.

“Your Grace, it’s time yer party got itself into the longboats.”

The captain’s curt voice breaks the uneasy awkwardness between them, and Daenerys turns away, plastering on a smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“My men will take you to shore. After payment is taken care of, o’course.”

“Of course,” she echoes. “Gather your men. I will give it to them personally.”

“There’s no need fer that, Yer Grace.”

“I insist,” she says. “I would like them to know I appreciate their efforts. A wise man once taught me the importance of the ordinary man, and I will not forget that just because I’m queen.”

The captain’s smile is decidedly less sickly than it was a moment before, but his eyes flicker to Jorah, who moves his hand subtly to the hilt of his sword, and he gives a terse nod. “As you wish, Yer Grace.”

“Thank you,” she says. It’s a very small victory, but it boosts her for what is to come.

\-- --

They’re met on shore by a small straggle of surly men and women. One of them steps forward, giving a short nod in Jorah’s direction but no other indication that he recognises him.

“We’re to escort you to Mormont Keep,” he says, addressing her instead. “Lady Mormont awaits you there.”

“That’s most kind,” Daenerys answers.

They spend a few minutes getting settled on the horses that have been brought along with them, before setting off from the stony beach.

Jorah’s descriptions of his homeland do not do it justice. It’s _beautiful_. Truly one of the most gorgeous places on earth. Its barrenness and wilderness only make it more so. It’s a diamond in the rough, carefully chipped away at over the years, revealing its inner beauty to the world if the world only cared enough to look.

The hardy trees are in full bloom, green leaves full and lush, arching into an emerald canopy above their heads. The gnarled barks tell twisted stories that stretch back centuries, to the First Men, wrinkles engrained deeply as they stand sentry through the centuries, watching over all strife and triumph. She catches sight of pools of deep cobalt, bluer even than the Jade Sea, offset by blinding white flurries of snow.

It’s a sanctuary separate from the rest of the world. Who could not love it here?

She falls back a little so she can ride by Jorah’s side as the path widens.

“It’s stunning here,” she tells him. “Truly.”

His gaze roves her face, as if searching for her deceit. “You think so?”

“Yes. I’ve never known peace like it. It’s so quiet here. An escape from the rest of the world. It’s a quiet I’ve never had before. You’re lucky. I wish I had known a place like this in my childhood. But I am lucky to have the opportunity to have it now.”

He gives her a smile, a rare one that deepens the crinkles around his eyes and makes her heart flutter in her chest. He’s so handsome when he smiles.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he says.

“I hope you will show me some of your favourite places while we’re here.”

“It would be my honour to.” Finally, he seems to be more relaxed, to understand that she isn’t his wife. He looks off into the distance, his expression twisted with nostalgic wistfulness. “There are many beautiful spots here if you’re willing to look.”

“I am more than willing to look. I’ve learnt a lesson that the most beautiful things can be found in the most unexpected of places.”

The tips of his ears redden and, feeling victorious, she digs her heels into her mare’s side and canters off.

It takes an hour to reach Mormont Keep. It’s set high on a cliff overlooking the sprawling lake. Light bounces off the surface, making it shimmer as if it’s bursting with dancing jewels. The keep itself looks modest but sturdy, another reflection on the Mormont words.

Lyanna meets them in the courtyard with her household gathered around her, looking neither overwhelmed nor impressed; but she does make for an amusing sight, the little lady in charge of all of these sullen men.

“Welcome to Bear Island, Your Grace,” she says with a hint of cynicism. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

Daenerys slides from her horse’s back. “Thank you, Lady Mormont. It’s an honour to be here.”

Lyanna does not answer, her gaze sliding to Jorah instead. “Cousin.”

“My lady,” Jorah replies, bowing his head respectfully.

“I did not expect we would meet again.”

“Neither did I.”

Conversation peters out. Jorah seems to shrink into himself, nothing like the confident man he has once again become in the last two years.

 _There are ghosts everywhere. We carry them with us wherever we go_ , she remembers him telling her once. There will be ghosts everywhere here for him, in every scent of pine and every caress of the wind, figures from the past reaching out to pull him back.

“I’m looking forward to seeing more of your beautiful land,” she says to break the silence.

“You might be disappointed. Southerners don’t do well here.”

“I’m not really a southerner.”

“Well, you’re not a northerner.”

“I’m an exile from Essos, as I’ve been reminded many times. I don’t belong in the north or the south. So I’m lucky that I want to learn about the north beyond Winterfell and that I’m not closed-minded enough to reject that this place has its merits.”

Lyanna stares her down but is the first one to break her gaze, her little face scrunched in disbelief. “We’ll see how you fare, Your Grace. Do you fancy yourself the warrior queen Visenya come again?”

“I have my differences from Visenya. I like to think I’m less cold than she was.”

“Are you as good with a sword?” Lyanna nods to her side, where Bear’s Roar rests against her thigh. Daenerys’ hand moves to it instinctively. She goes nowhere without it these days. She will never be vulnerable again like she was on the Long Night. She will never let any one of her followers die needlessly for her.

Especially Jorah. He is Lord Commander of her Queensguard and would sulk if he thought she was taking his duty away from him, but he is the man she loves. It’s not simple.

It’s never been simple where the two of them are concerned.

She pulls it from its scabbard, brandishing it in front of her. The light catches off the jet blade, shimmering in the cold. “I like to think I’m not terrible.”

It’s a pretty sword. Valyrian steel, I see.”

“Forged from my very own dragon.”

Lyanna is unimpressed. “My cousin had a Valyrian steel blade once. It’s Jon Stark’s now.”

Daenerys ignores the snub. “Ser Jorah has another now, worthy of his place in my household.”

Lyanna shrugs. “A Valyrian steel blade is only as good as its wielder. Are you good enough to wield yours, Your Grace?”

“I think so,” she says.

“Well, no doubt you’ve had a long journey,” says Lyanna, the swiftness of the subject change taking Daenerys by surprise. “The servants will show you to your quarters. I hope you will join me for dinner. We do not have the luxury to waste on extravagant feasts so you’ll be hosted only by me and my household, I’m afraid. I hope it won’t be too dull for you.”

“It will make a welcome change,” says Daenerys. “I’m rather tired of all the feasts.”

Lyanna turns on her heel and waves at her household. “Show the queen and her party to their quarters, please.”

And with that, they’re shown inside, Lyanna’s dismissal an abrupt ending to the frosty reception.

\-- --

Daenerys’ quarters are small but comfortable. There’s a fire in the grate and logs to feed it. It’s sparse, but she expected nothing else. Bear Islanders are what can be seen, no airs, no graces. If something doesn’t serve a purpose, it’s unnecessary. It’s a refreshing change.

The one drawback is that Jorah’s quarters are nowhere near her own; he’s with the other men at the other side of the small keep. It will be nigh on impossible to spend any time with him.

She whiles away the time until dinner sitting in the window, straining her eyes to see as much of Bear Island as she can through the mist that settles low over the snow. Missandei appears when it’s time to dress, and they chatter idly as she gets ready. Missandei is no great lover of the north. Daenerys remembers the suspicion and derision her friend was met with in Winterfell before the Long Night and knows that it’s never quite left her. Which makes it all the more admirable that she would return again now, for her.

When she emerges from her chambers, she finds Jorah waiting for her.

“Oh!” she says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I thought I would escort you down to the hall.”

“That’s a most welcome suggestion, ser.”

Under other circumstances he might have offered his arm. He won’t here. Here he is too aware of the scrutiny and it’s too close to home. These people know him almost as well as she does. He was lord of them once. There will be whispers abound without more fuel being added to the fire.

Instead he walks just behind her, as any lord commander would, murmuring instructions on where to turn when required. Any impetuous stories will be quashed by Missandei’s presence with them.

At last they reach the hall, where the other members of her party mill about uneasily; only her Dothraki are missing, not interested in such dull formalities. If only she could join them.

Missandei drifts off to Grey Worm, leaving Daenerys and Jorah alone.

“How are you?” she asks quietly.

“Fine, Your Grace.”

“You don’t need to lie to me, Jorah. I know it can’t be easy. Your home is so different now.”

He shakes his head at that. “No. This isn’t home. Not anymore.”

Warmth spreads from her chest, right to the tips of her ears. She knows what he’s not saying. Home is not a place but a person. _Her_. Just like the house with the red door is no longer her dream home. As long as she’s with him, she’s home.

“Even so,” she says, “it’s not easy for you. I don’t think Lady Mormont has any intentions of making things easy for anyone.”

“She doesn’t,” he allows. “I hope you don’t take offence. The Mormonts love the Starks. Jon is a god here. My father worshipped him, and so does Lyanna by the sounds of it. I don’t think it will be an easy evening for anyone.”

“I’m not a delicate flower. I’m sure I can handle whatever she has to say.”

“Just...don’t lose your temper.”

“What makes you think I would?”

His lips quirk slightly. “You have the blood of the dragon. And I know you can’t help roasting people when they say something you don’t agree with.”

“How rude, ser! I would never do such a thing.” She gives him a jab with her elbow to let him know she’s jesting, but he steps away as if she’d burned him.

“Not now,” he says, so low she almost misses it.

Before she can answer, the door to the great hall opens. Lyanna strolls around the corner with the rest of her esteemed household.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all,” Daenerys replies. “We’ve just arrived ourselves.”

“Well, let’s go in.” Lyanna brushes past without waiting for anyone else. Jorah shoots her an apologetic look. She tilts her head to let him know that she takes no offense, then leads the way in afterwards.

“I’ve seated you here,” says Lyanna, waving a careless hand to her right. “I trust you don’t mind I sit head of the table.”

“It’s your home,” says Daenerys. “You can sit wherever you like.”

Lyanna harrumphs but does not say anything. The rest file in around them and take their places. Daenerys makes sure Jorah stays at her right side. After all, that’s where he belongs regardless of his position in her heart. As politically important to her as Tyrion and the rest of her council.

“We’re dining on fish tonight,” Lyanna informs them. “It’s our staple. We don’t have luxurious meats here, Your Grace.”

Another challenge. Another bait she will not rise to. “Fish will make a welcome change, thank you.”

There’s a stiff silence. Jorah clears his throat. “It’s good to see Bear Island doing so well. I’m glad.”

“Yes, it’s faring better than it was. It took a while for it to recover from the mismanagement of the past...”

He sets his jaw but says nothing. Daenerys won’t let it stand, however. They can make whatever barbed jibes they like about her, but she will not let the same happen to the valued members of her party. “I’m grateful to have gained an accomplished and irreplaceable lord commander out of this island.”

Lyanna arches an eyebrow. “Ah, yes. An accomplished general is necessary to keep the peace, I’ll allow that.”

“He does more than keep the peace. He’s lord commander for a reason. He trains the soldiers with the other generals and he’s widely respected by everyone. You know yourself how incredible he was on the Long Night.”

“As were you, Your Grace. ‘The Dragon and the Bear’ is a popular song.” Lyanna gives her a sly glance. “You did well to stay alive considering a sword wouldn’t be your usual choice of weapon.”

“Yes, Drogon works as well as any sword.”

“I suppose a queen ought to carry a sword, though, even if it shouldn’t be used as a pretty decoration.”

“I agree. Which is why it’s _not_ a decoration.”

“Oh, so you’re adamant you know how to wield it, then?”

“I _do_ ,” Daenerys says, jutting out her chin. “Your cousin taught me.”

Lyanna arches a thick eyebrow. “Well, I suppose you’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. Bear Islanders _are_ tough. I cannot deny that my cousin fought bravely on the Long Night.”

“And you slayed a giant. Bear Islanders are very tough indeed.”

Lyanna, like her cousin, is unable to take a compliment. Unlike her cousin, however, she returns it with a frank insult of her own. “Pretty words from a pretty queen.”

“Lyanna,” Jorah growls.

 _“My lady,”_ she corrects, giving him a scowl. “And I’m sure Queen Daenerys doesn’t mind proving to us that she can use the sword she carries. It would be poor form if she can’t.”

“Your Queen of the North can’t,” Daenerys says.

“Queen Sansa doesn’t carry a sword,” Lyanna shrugs. “Her strengths lie elsewhere. We respect that she pretends no different.”

“Then I’ll be happy to prove to you that I weave no tall tales about myself.”

“So you agree to a sparring session, Your Grace?”

“Of course. Who do you wish me to spar with?”

“Your Grace,” says Jorah, “you have nothing to prove to anyone.”

That’s where he’s wrong. She has _everything_ to prove. Lyanna may have no memories of Lynesse, but her burly men at arms do. She will not allow anyone to think the same of her. She will not be a fragile blossom blowing in the wind, likely to be upended root and stem by the tiniest bit of pressure. Dragons do not yield. They are made to flourish in harsh climes.

“I will spar with you myself,” Lyanna informs her. “I warn you, I’m not afraid to knock you into the snow, queen or no.”

“I would be offended if you were. And I warn you that I’m not afraid to knock _you_ into the snow, child or no.”

Lyanna grins for the first time. It transforms her sullen face into something pretty. “Fighting talk. Very well, Your Grace, may the best woman win.”

Jorah doesn’t look at all happy at this, but Daenerys studiously ignores his reproachful stare, losing herself in inane chatter about the travels so far. Now that she’s accepted a challenge, Lyanna seems much warmer; indeed she engages in questions about Winterfell and the rest of the north without a hint of sarcasm. The rest of the household staff don’t say much, sullen northern men who have little interest in the affairs beyond their own island. Her own don’t have much to say either. Missandei and Grey Worm sit quietly by, ill-at-ease in the frozen climes. They will be glad to get back south, where they fit in with the others under the golden rays of the sun.

Jorah, likewise, says nothing, though she’s sure that has more to do with the fact that he’s angry. It’s probably a good thing they’ll be apart tonight. She doesn’t want another quarrel. She has to do this. He won’t agree. But it’s the only way she’ll garner respect—and yes, his trust that she embraces all parts of the place he used to call home.

Even so, dinner isn’t a comfortable affair and she’s glad to escape for the night back to her own quarters, leaving Jorah glowering at her back, unable to make himself known.

It hurts her as much as it hurts him to do it. She keeps reiterating that she wants him as her equal, but these circumstances mean it can never be so. A lover in secret does not have the same clout as a consort by her side.

She sleeps little that night.

Wonders if the same doubts plague him too.

\-- --

In King’s Landing, there are always sounds. Children laughing and screaming, men shouting as they sell their wares, the distant clanging of swords.

In the north it’s deadly silent. The snow strangles all.

Daenerys dresses in the darkness of dawn. She puts on her warmest furs and cinches Bear’s Roar to her side.

They break their fast on honeyed bread and black bacon. She doesn’t have much appetite, more preoccupied with what is to come. Jorah spends the entire meal glaring at his plate. He doesn’t say a word.

Lyanna is a different animal, shovelling everything into her mouth with the gusto of youth.

“We’ll take half an hour to get ready before meeting out in the training yard,” she says. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, Your Grace?”

“I have not.” Daenerys keeps her gaze away from Jorah’s; she feels it piercing her. “Whenever you’re ready I’ll be there.”

The rest of breakfast passes without incident, and a short time later they’re out in the training yard.

Quite a crowd has gathered. Evidently news of Lady Mormont challenging the Dragon Queen has spread like wildfire through the household. Children peer from the rafters. Women pause with baskets of wood. Men stand around the perimeters, not even pretending that they’re there for anything other than the training session. All are staunch Lyanna supporters.

But she has supporters of her own.

Missandei, silent and watchful, Grey Worm tense. The Dothraki amused by these ridiculous traditions when they should have been trained as much as they need to be before they hit ten. Jorah, rigid, the lines in his forehead deep and the set of his jaw so sharp that it must hurt.

Lyanna stands opposite her, dressed all in black.

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” she asks.

Daenerys takes her place opposite. “I am.”

“You don’t want to use wooden swords?”

“I’m not a child. Steel is fine.”

“I don’t want to be accused of trying to assassinate the queen.”

“You’re assuming I can’t take care of myself.” She withdraws her sword. A statement. Lyanna gives her a crooked grin, pulling out her own.

“It’s a pretty sword, I’ll give you that,” she says. “Menacing colour. I bet blood doesn’t show up on the blade.”

“Only in certain lights.”

“And does it have a name?”

“Don’t all the best swords?”

“Depends on the person. I’m not interested in all of that. I like my sword to serve its purpose. That’s good enough for me.”

“Your ancestors would probably disagree. Longclaw was your family sword for centuries, was it not?”

“It was. Then it was lost, as your cousin is well aware.”

Daenerys bristles. “He lost nothing. He made the decision to leave it behind. He could have taken it with him. It was his father who gave the sword to Jon. He could have saved it for another Mormont.”

Lyanna shrugs. “Jon is highly respected. A former king. And like a son to our kin, from what we’ve all heard.”

“But not his son.”

“No. His son fled Westeros selling slaves to please his wife.”

“He returned to Westeros to help fight against the Army of the Dead.”

“He came with you, did he not? Ned Stark wanted his head.”

“Ask your King in the North what he thinks of that. He fought with Jon beyond the Wall. Jon respects him with everything in him. I know you respect Jon. So his opinion should count towards a lot.”

“Enough,” said Jorah quietly, stepping between the two of them. “I made many mistakes. I won’t deny them. But nor will I stand here and be insulted. If you would rather I not be here, please let me know. I can make my way back to the mainland north and await the queen there.”

Lyanna raises an eyebrow. “Bear Islanders are supposed to have thick pelts, cousin. Has time in the south made you soft? I have no objection to you being here. If I did, I would have stopped you as soon as I heard the queen was coming. The north remembers, but we can acknowledge when our kin has done good.”

“Then stop bringing his mistakes up,” says Daenerys, fired up once more. “He is here as part of my royal guard. He has a place of high esteem. I will not allow anyone to insult a member of my household. Say what you like about me, I don’t care. But Ser Jorah has been my most loyal supporter and he is the reason I breathe today. Now perhaps we can get back to the matter at hand? Or are you purposefully delaying?”

“Certainly not, Your Grace. I’m more than ready. What’s the name of your pretty sword?”

“Bear’s Roar,” Daenerys answers, jutting out her chin. It raises plenty of eyebrows. She’s used to that by now. Likely there are whispers through the land about her naming her sword after her lord commander.

“Bear’s Roar?” Lyanna says. “Is that homage to my cousin?”

“He has been my most loyal supporter for years. He almost gave his life for me. It’s the least I could do.”

“The least,” Lyanna echoes, a ghost of a smirk touching the corners of her mouth. Daenerys isn’t sure what to make of that look. It’s not something she expected to see on a girl of thirteen; adults in her court picked up on less in six months than she has in a few hours. Even Tyrion, who likes to boast of his cleverness, and Varys who has his little birds. Not one of them realised what was happening right under their noses.

“I think we’ve had enough formalities,” she says, raising Bear’s Roar. “When you’re ready, Lady Mormont.”

“Mormonts are always ready,” the young girl tells her. She adjusts her stance, raising her weapon. Daenerys mirrors her, tossing her braid over her shoulder. Furs are cumbersome, making it more awkward to move and slowing her movements, but she is determined not to be shown up by a child.

She is determined to show that Jorah is a fantastic teacher.

“Be careful,” the Master of Arms instructs gruffly. “We don’t want any blood spilled here today.”

“Don’t worry, that won’t happen,” says Lyanna. “Shall we begin, Your Grace?”

Daenerys nods, tensing.

Then the dance begins.

Circling. Thrusting. Parrying. Breaths harsh, cloudy in the freezing air. Metal singing. Parting, meeting again. Lunging in, clashing, springing back to circle. Weighing each other up like predators. The audience rapt and tense. But no one exists in Dany’s world apart from the young girl in front of her, the girl with the northern look and the sharp features of her cousin. Lyanna’s cheeks are pink, and little tendrils of hair are plastered to her forehead.

They’re evenly matched. It’s not a surprise. Lyanna is a Bear Islander. They’re strong and ferocious. Jorah is living proof of that. Stepping, twirling, moving faster and faster until her eardrums throb with the sound of crashing swords. Lyanna ducks and weaves with stubborn grit—but with a thrill Daenerys realises she’s winning. Lyanna is small and fast but she’s not as strong. Her arms tremble with the effort of parrying the blows, and she takes a step back to avoid the flat of the sword against her side.

Daenerys smells blood. Moves in for the kill.

She meets Lyanna’s sword side-on, with all of her might. Lyanna gives a gasp as her sword spins out of her hand, clattering on the roughhewn stones, and she loses her footing as the force of the impact sends her stumbling back; in the next moment she’s on her arse. Daenerys takes a step forward, aiming the point of her sword right at the girl’s delicate throat.

Those dark northern eyes stare up at her with barely disguised reproach and irritation.

But she’s an honourable northwoman. Emitting a pained grunt and although it’s through gritted teeth she concedes, “I yield.”

The silence in its wake is as delicate as glass.

And then it’s broken by the war cries of her Dothraki, jubilant in the strength of their khaleesi. She has won another battle. There’s no need for her to cut her hair today. Another bell will be added to her braid to cement her place as the greatest leader their kind has ever seen.

At the outcry from her Dothraki, Daenerys takes a step back, sliding Bear’s Roar back into its scabbard. Gingerly, Lyanna clambers back to her feet, waving away the aid of her household who have moved forward to help.

Dark eyes peer up into her face, thick brows set in a heavy scowl. There’s wounded pride there. Daenerys knows that Bear Islanders hate to show any weakness in front of others—it’s in Jorah’s blood as much as his little cousin’s.

Unlike most men, however, Lyanna doesn’t sulk; she holds out her hand and Daenerys takes it.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Lyanna says. “Perhaps I have underestimated you.”

“You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,” Daenerys says.

“And I must congratulate my cousin for doing such a good job with the training,” Lyanna continues. “Not that I doubted. Bear Islanders are some of the best fighters around. Now, would you like some ale to celebrate your victory?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

And with that, Lyanna Mormont smiles.

\-- --

The frosty reception thaws from there. Lyanna is the first to make conversation, to make them all feel welcome. It seems as if taking on her challenge and overcoming it has finally gained her the young girl’s respect.

Not without other costs, however.

Jorah is displeased with her. She sees it in the set of his jaw and the hard grey glint in his eyes.

There’s no time to get him alone. Instead she’s forced to stand by laughing and being a gracious guest when all she wants to do is take him aside.

Her opportunity doesn’t come until the evening. As the merriment continues around her, she makes her excuses to Lyanna and rises.

“Ser Jorah,” she calls through the crowd, to where he sits nursing a tankard of ale, sullen and silent. Unable to snub his queen in front of others, he glances in her direction.

“Your Grace?” he says through gritted teeth.

“Will you escort me back to my chambers and stand guard while I send Grey Worm to find my sentry for the night?”

She can tell he wants to object, but Lyanna’s eyes follow them curiously and je is forced to acquiesce. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He stands and follows her out of the hall. The journey is made in painful silence.

Once they are at the safety of her chambers, she turns to him. “Come inside.”

“No,” he says at once. “It’s not wise. Not here.”

“There’s no one here but us. Our guards know what is here between us. I’m not asking you to stay with me, just for you to step inside for a few minutes.”

He’d like to reject her, she knows that. But that’s the thing with Jorah. Even angry with her, he can deny her nothing. Giving a taut nod, he follows her inside.

The maids have started a fire. The warmth washes over her, and she moves closer to the source.

“You’re angry,” she notes, analysing his posture as he remains unyielding against the closed door.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I know you, Jorah Mormont. You can’t hide anything from me, not anymore. But I won’t apologise for what I did. It needed to be done.”

“It didn’t. You had nothing to prove.”

“You know that’s a lie as well as I do. I had everything to prove. I’m not Sansa Stark, I’m not well loved here no matter what. I can’t look weak. I’ll never have respect if I do.” She straightens her spine. “And there were other reasons too, I confess. I want your family to like me.”

Jorah snorts bitterly. “I don’t know why. They don’t like _me_ very much. And it’s not as if anyone beyond the necessary people know about the two of us...”

And therein lies the problem, she wants to scream. This secret has started to become poison between them; give a person too much nightshade and it will begin to poison the bloodstream. Instead she takes a breath, choosing her words carefully. “Even so, I want them to think that you’ve made a good choice. That I am the right person for you to follow.”

“It’s irrelevant what they think,” he argues. “I am proud of my choice, whatever they might think.”

And she loves him for it. “Whatever _you_ think, I did the right thing. Lyanna has more respect for me now. _And_ for you.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, it’s true. You made me a better fighter. Your training is what enabled me to do what I did today. I will never have to cower or hover ineffectually on the side lines again. I will be able to stand and fight.”

“Gods be good you’ll _never_ have to raise a sword in combat.”

“I hope for the same. But there’s always a chance. One displeased lord, another with notions of displacing the foreign queen, anything could make them rise up against me. I have to show that I’m ready. And I will not be a Sansa Stark, hiding behind my walls while my men fight for me.”

Jorah’s mouth flattens into a displeased line. It’s not a notion that sits well with him, but his concern has nothing to do with her sex and everything to do with the fact that he wouldn’t want the woman he loves fighting.

Still, he had no choice on the Long Night. And if the day ever came when she had to take up arms again, he wouldn’t have a choice then, either.

“Lyanna saw today that my words can be backed up by actions. I am not too proud to get my hands dirty and to fight for my people. I can tell the people here are close-knit and fiercely loyal. That’s what got me that respect today. Regardless of whether you thought it was sensible or not, it was the right judgement. If they see me as the queen I try to be they will understand your loyalty. It’s not a bad thing to have your house as an ally, you know.”

“It’s a small one. You would be better with one of the bigger houses, like the Umbers. Or better yet, the Starks of Winterfell. You have a shared interest there in Jon.”

“The thing is, we _don’t_ have a shared interest. Jon’s name may be Targaryen now, but his heart still claims him a Stark. Sansa and Arya are fiercely protective of him, as he is of them. They’re the only Starks left. And I am a Targaryen alone in the world.” She gives him a twisted smile.

But her words shake off whatever haze that has been smothering him. Reaching through the space between them, he grabs hold of her hand. His fingers lace through hers like the roots of the old weirwoods knitting together through the centuries.

“You will never be alone in the world, Daenerys,” he says. “You have many people who love you. And you have me. I will never abandon you, no matter what comes our way.”

“You’ve said those words to me before. A long time ago now. But you’ve never wavered, have you? Even when you could have done. Even if you might have been angry at me. You could have pledged yourself to another, if you’d wanted.”

He squeezes her hand, sincerity deep in every line of his face. “My allegiance cannot be bought like a whore, Khaleesi. I am yours, no one else’s. I will never be anyone else’s, no matter what they say. I was never Robert Baratheon’s. I wanted home, so I selfishly, _foolishly_ , took the opportunity presented to me. I will regret that for the rest of my days, and I will never atone for it. But my sword and heart have been yours from that day in the Dothraki market.”

“And you have my heart and loyalty, Jorah,” she says, stepping closer to him. “I can’t confess the same devotion that you have shown to me for so many years, for we’d both know it was a lie and I will not have lies between us, but I have had affection and love for you in my own way from the beginning. I was scared of the possibility of more, so I buried it deep and convinced myself there was nothing there for you. But _that’s_ the biggest lie of all, Jorah. You have had more of my heart than anyone else ever has. Not Drogo, certainly not Daario. Not Jon. Only you had the thoughts in my head.” She reaches up, palms his cheek. He leans in to her touch, his eyes closing. She takes the opportunity to study his features, running her thumb over his bottom lip. His lips part a little more at her touch, an instinctive reaction that never fails to soften her heart. When his tongue rasps over the pad of her thumb, she steps closer to him, replacing her hand with her mouth. She kisses him softly, moving her mouth with infinite care over his, tasting the ale on his tongue and relishing the prickle of his stubble against her chin.

She steps away from him. He swallows thickly, his eyes opening. She gives him a smile, placing her hand over his heart.

“This is why I want to prove your family wrong,” she says. “For you. For your honour and pride.”

“You don’t have to do anything for me, Daenerys.”

And that’s where he’s wrong. She should do everything for him. If they both lived a century it would never be enough time to repay him for his sacrifices.

She knows he doesn’t need it, would never demand anything of her.

“It’s late,” he says softly now. “Get some rest, Khaleesi. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You could stay,” she whispers, running her fingers down the front of his tunic.

“That’s not a good idea. If anyone saw us...”

“They wouldn’t. Only my guards would know, and they won’t say a word.”

But Jorah shakes his head. “It’s not wise. We can’t jeopardise what you’ve built. Rumours spread faster than wildfire. You’re not in King’s Landing to contain it yourself, and I don’t think Varys would be very happy having to do it. Tyrion might find it more amusing but even he wouldn’t thank you for having to suppress a political disaster without your presence. The people of King’s Landing might be more willing to turn a blind eye to things, but the north doesn’t is its own beast.”

 _I don’t care,_ she wants to tell him, _let the world say what it wants. I am queen, I can do as I like._

Except she can’t. Not if she wants to expel the poison that Cersei Lannister inflicted upon the realm. She has to do things the right way. Ruling like that would make her no better than the people she had removed.

“I want to see the island tomorrow,” she says instead, her compromise. “I want you to be my guide. I want to see your home through your eyes.”

“How many time do I have to tell you, Khaleesi?” he says with a soft, sad smile. “Bear Island hasn’t been my home for years.”

\-- --

The next morning is gloriously cold, and finds Daenerys and Jorah trekking through the snow on foot. Out of courtesy she’d asked Lyanna to accompany her to see the sights, but the young woman had offered her a sly smile and waved away the notion.

“I’m sure my cousin will make for a far more fascinating guide than I,” she’d said. “No doubt you will find some interesting spots to explore together.”

“She knows,” Jorah frets. “And if it leaves here...”

“She knows nothing,” Daenerys soothes. “We’ve been nothing but decorous since we stepped foot on that boat. There’s no reason to suspect that you are anything but lord commander to me. Mayhaps she’s heard tales of your devotion and is teasing us about it. You haven’t done a very good job of hiding it over the years, after all. Tyrion knew. And you let the world know after the Kingsguard tourney…”

Jorah blushes, bypassing that detail entirely as he intones, “Well, you know Tyrion. He drinks and he knows things. Although he isn’t as clever as he thinks. He didn’t spot the truth of it right under his nose.”

“What truth might that be?” she asks lightly, shooting him a sideways grin as she catches his startled look out of the corner of her eye. His alarm melts when he realises her teasing.

“You love me,” he says.

“Say it again.”

“You love me.”

“Again.”

“You love me...”

Laughing, she backs him into a gnarled old tree, its sheaves hanging low like a secret canopy. This is what she loves most; the opportunity to simply be _free_ with Jorah in a way she rarely can be. At King’s Landing their moments are almost always at night, clandestine and illicit. Hidden. As though it’s shameful, when in reality it is the purest thing she’s ever had. She wraps her arms around him and stretches on her tiptoes.

“Is this wise?” he questions her, though not without a hitch in his breath.

“We’re alone, Jorah. No one can see us.” She nudges her nose against his, leaning into his tall frame. He gathers her into his arms seemingly without thought, fingers clutching at fur, yet his expression doesn’t change.

“We’re near the road. Folk from the village come and go this way. If one wanders too close...”

“Then take me elsewhere,” she begs. Hardly a queenly thing to do, but right now the woman in her is fighting a strong battle. “You must know this place like the back of your hand. Take me somewhere.”

“It’s not sensible—”

“Gods, Jorah, I don’t care about sensible. I’m tired of sensible. We’ve been sensible since the moment we stepped on that boat.”

“And what good will it do if our work is undone in a single moment?”

“You’re worrying over nothing. Please, Jorah. Just for an hour, let me be Daenerys. Here in your homeland, let me just be a woman.”

Jorah stares at her for a moment, then nods. “There are caves near the shore. I used to explore them as a boy.”

“Then let’s go there.”

“We’ll have to pass through the fishing village.”

“That’s all right. I wanted to visit.”

And with that there’s no more to argue. Stealing a quick kiss from his mouth—over before he can rebuke her—she steps back on to the well-worn path.

“Well, Lord Commander Mormont, will you lead the way?” she says, gesturing for him to join her.

“Aye, Your Grace, if you so command,” he replies.

They walk close enough together that her gloved fingers brush against his. It’s not enough, but it’s enough for now.

\-- --

They have a wonderful afternoon.

Daenerys meets with many of the villagers who dwell in the little fishing huts built up around Bear Island’s shores. It’s a bustling, lively place, where everyone seems to know everyone else. The women flock around to help, lugging barrels of fish and exchanging ribald banter with the men.

Jorah rubs the back of his neck. “It’s never been a place of soft ladies, Your Grace. Hardship breeds hardness.”

“Which is what I appreciate,” she says. “It’s not often I get to be around people who don’t look down on women for their sex.”

“There’s no danger of that here.”

It’s a welcome change, to see women treated as equals.

They move through the people, Daenerys making sure she pauses to talk to each one who stops. It’s not many, in fairness. Like the members who live in Mormont Keep, the villagers have little interest in southerners.

The ones who do stop are a curious bunch. More daring than any other commoner would be. Blunt with their questions, blank in the wake of her answers.

Daenerys finds she rather likes it. It makes a refreshing change to the simpering of court life. It challenges her in ways she hasn’t been for a while. She enjoys this political dance, daring herself to get them all onside.

It might be arrogant, but she thinks she has triumphed; by the time she and Jorah leave, there are smiles everywhere. Grim, reluctant ones, but smiles nevertheless.

She takes it as a victory.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in blissful solitude. They seek out the caves Jorah mentioned, exploring the deep crevices and exchanging heated kisses in the dark. She holds his hand as he leads her through the narrow, rocky passages, her heart fluttering at the simplicity of it all. A simple walk holding hands with a loved one is something most folk take for granted. Even if it’s still under the cover of darkness here, it’s something to be treasured.

They find Drogon in one of the larger caves, taking shelter from the harsh winds and the flurries of summer snows. There’s barely any room in there but she slips through his coiling tail to press her palm to his snout. He huffs a plume of smoke through his nostrils, crimson eyes burning into her. She knows he hates the north. Dragons are creatures of fire. They are not made to live in such places.

“We will go home soon,” she soothes him. “Then you and Rhaegal can soar together above King’s Landing once more.”

They leave Drogon sulking there, venturing further into the twisting labyrinth of caves. It would be easy to get lost here. People probably have in the past, their skeletons turned to dust on the sandy floors. But she is not afraid. She never has been with Jorah by her side.

“I used to spend hours in these caves,” Jorah recalls, his voice echoing around the cavern. “Whenever I wanted to escape, I would come here. My father would never find me.”

“Darkness for dark thoughts?” she teases.

“Something like that.”

“How old were you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t remember. Four, five?”

“You started brooding young.”

“I lost my mother young. My father grieved her. I’m not sure if I was too painful a reminder for him...” His voice tails off, tinged with regret. She remembers his words about retaining the memory of finding her in the ash of Drogo’s funeral pyre long after his mother’s face had faded. Had it?

“I only ever had my brother,” she muses. “I wonder if my father would have loved me. I’ve only ever heard terrible things about him...”

“He wasn’t always a bad man, Khaleesi. Before the madness took hold he was a good king. The world is rarely black and white. I’m sure he would have loved you the same as your brothers.”

“Most men prefer little princes.”

“Little princesses are as precious on Bear Island as any prince would be.”

“I know,” she says fondly, and feels a pang low down in her gut. She will never bear him those princes and princesses. It’s not something that will bother him, she knows that. But the idea of family...it’s a foreign sweetness she wishes she could experience properly. She’d loved Viserys, despite his viciousness, and having a gentler family would only make it sweeter.

She has a family, of course. A family chosen by herself. But a family of the blood...that’s another thing.

It’s something she plans to rectify.

The time flies far too quickly. When they finally emerge from the caves, it’s to the sun a blood orange low in the sky, like dragon flame. She squints against its fierceness and Jorah snuffs out the branch they’ve been using for light.

“If we don’t hurry we’ll miss dinner,” he says. He doesn’t say what he fears: that they’ve been gone too long and people will notice.

She can’t find it in herself to care. “There’s one more stop we need to make first.”

“Where’s that?”

“The godswood.”

He frowns. “Why the godswood? You don’t worship the old gods.”

“Humour me, ser,” she says. “The sooner we go, the sooner we can return to the keep.”

He rolls his eyes but leads the way.

The godswood is smaller than Winterfell’s. The weirwood stands silent and watchful in the middle of it all, weeping those bloody tears, centuries of bloodshed in its face.

Daenerys has never felt comfortable in places like this. Perhaps it’s because she _is_ an outsider here.

But she intends to change that.

“Do you remember the first time we were in a godswood together?” she asks.

“Of course I do, Khaleesi. We were together in Winterfell.”

“You were still recovering from your injuries. You were the only person I knew I could trust.” She looks past him, recalling those tumultuous days. The underlying unease which gnawed at her stomach. The fear that he could be taken from her. Her mixed feelings for Jon. Her refusal to contemplate that Jorah could ever be more than he was to her.

And those words he had spoken to her beneath the weirwood. The oaths he had sworn to her again, all the more sacred for their placing: that he would never allow any harm to come to her.

She wants him to swear new vows here.

“We’ve come a long way since then,” she muses.

“We have,” he agrees, coming to her side. Where he belongs.

She swallows. Takes a breath.

Lets go.

“I think it’s time we went further,” she says. She feels the weight of Jorah’s gaze on her, heavy with confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

This is it.

She turns towards him, straightening to her full height.

Making sure she has his gaze, she says, “Marry me.”

Silence.

Long. Not sullen, but certainly not comfortable. The lump in his throat rolls as he swallows hard.

“What?” he says hoarsely.

“Marry me,” she repeats. “Join your house with mine. Be my consort. You’ve been my most trusted advisor, my most important general, and my dearest friend for so long now. I want the world to know that you’re my greatest love too.”

Jorah shakes his head, agonised. “Daenerys...”

“What?” she challenges. “Are you going to say you don’t want to marry me? That you haven’t dreamt about it?”

He clenches his jaw; she knows it’s a low blow. He wanted her for years before she caught up with him, and stood stoically by through it all.

“There’s a lot to think about, Your Grace,” he says through gritted teeth.

They’re back to the formalities, and it hurts her. “Like what?”

He snorts, a bitter sound. “Have you forgotten you have six kingdoms to keep at peace?”

“I’m reminded of it at every turn,” she shoots back.

“Then you know what that means.”

“Oh? Is that what you want, then?” She can feel her temper rising dangerously, a dragon’s temper fit to burst. “To see me wed some other man for the sake of the realm?”

“ _Won’t_ you?” he shoots back, all ice to her fire, and that hurts too. “That’s what Varys wants. That’s what all your lords and ladies want. A match worthy of their queen. I am not that match.”

“And _that’s_ your fight for us? Sulking like a child?”

“And your answer is to pretend you don’t have this duty to fulfil?”

They glare at each other. This wasn’t how she’d expected it to go. She’d had visions of him sweeping her off her feet like a knight might his maiden fair. Forcing herself to calm, she takes a step back.

“I have no intentions of fulfilling any duties. I did that with Drogo. I will never do it again. I will marry no one if I don’t marry you. I can’t have children, so the succession will be decided in other ways.”

“You need the respect of your people. They won’t respect you marrying an exile knight from a poor house.”

“If I remember rightly, a Mormont was once good enough for the Starks. Lyra Mormont. It was in your history books.”

“The Starks weren’t kings then.”

“They were still wardens of the north and the most respected house here.”

“And the Targaryens would never have given a single thought to this little place rotting away on the edge of Westeros.”

“And we’ve seen where trying to keep the bloodline pure has got us. On the brink of extinction. The name will die with me unless Jon has children. And I haven’t come here to be the same as every ruler before me. I want to enact change. That is my purpose. And change will never happen if I bow to the same old ideas which have plagued this place for centuries. What have I always said? That I will break the wheel. That I will show everyone that love does not have to be the death of duty.”

“It’s a noble desire, Your Grace,” he says stiffly.

“Don’t you dare use formalities now, Jorah,” she growls. “It’s not a desire. It’s what I will do. People have said for years that you can’t rule with love. I’m proving them wrong, just like the best of my ancestors. And that means I can show them a new way with you. I want to marry you because I love you, not because you can offer me power or riches. You offer me things far more important.”

He shakes his head sardonically. “I thought I was supposed to be the doomed romantic, not you.”

“You do yourself a disservice. You are more well-respected than you think. A hero of the Long Night. Lord Commander of my Queensguard and esteemed by all. Brave and measured. A true knight.” She risks a glance at him from under her lashes. “I fear your head will swell if I continue to praise you.”

“I’m sure Tyrion will make sure it does not.” This time, a small smile does graze his lips. A victory. She steps closer.

“Tyrion likes to court danger,” she says. “Clearly he thinks you don’t have the jaws of a real bear.”

“I need to hit him more often, then,” he grumbles. But he doesn’t flinch when she reaches for his hand. Another victory.

“This will be my legacy,” she continues. “Proving that the realm doesn’t have to be held up on fear and political threats. That love can be a significant a factor as any in keeping the peace. I love you, Jorah. I don’t want to be with anyone else, nor do I want to keep this a secret for the rest of our lives. I’m not ashamed of you. I want the whole of Westeros to see what I see. And if they don’t...Well, I woild like them to respecy my choice.”

“That won’t be easy. The old beliefs will be hard to stamp out.”

“Maybe so, but Jon agrees that it’s something worth fighting for.”

Jorah narrows his eyes at her. “Jon?”

She grimaces at her slip up. Jorah frowns.

“You’ve spoken to Jon about this?”

No use trying to deny it now. “I have. When we were in Winterfell. I value Jon’s opinion on some matters. He’s sensible and he’s detached from the situation.”

Jorah shakes his head, clearly still having difficulty processing it. “You spoke to _Jon_?”

“Yes.”

“ _Before_ you spoke to me?”

She arches her eyebrow. “Yes. Why, do you mind?”

He huffs, but the side of his mouth quirks a little, too, as if he’s fighting a smile. “I do, yes. No man wants to find out that their lady has discussed marriage with another man. What did you say?”

“We discussed most of the concerns you brought up.”

“And what did he say?”

“That I should marry you anyway. That there will always be people in opposition to any decision I make no matter what it is, so I should follow my heart.”

“He could have an ulterior motive. He could see it as a chance to gain support for himself.”

Daenerys snorts. Even now, when he knows Jon, he still has a suspicious mind. “Jon rescinded his crown to Sansa because he didn’t want to be king in the north. He denounced his intention to the Iron Throne. He will not go back on that.”

“He has powerful allies...”

“And he swore he would pledge his support to us. I believe him. He’s infuriatingly noble.”

Jorah snorts at that. “And my concerns on the matter?”

“Will be duly considered as they always are. But as your queen, I have the final word.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” He grins. “So I suppose whatever I say won’t change your mind.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Then what choice do I have?”

“You always have a choice. I just expect you to make the right one.”

“Then I suppose the decision is clear, isn’t it? Yes, Daenerys Targaryen, I will marry you.”

At his words, her heart unclenches in her chest. “You will?”

“Aye, I will.”

“I want us to get married while we’re here.”

Jorah stops short. “What?”

“I want us to get married on your island, in sight of your old gods. And then, when we get back to King’s Landing, I will announce my intentions to marry you in the light of the Seven. We will still have the wedding that the realm expects of me, but _we_ will have the knowledge that we are already bound by sacred oaths. If anyone is fool enough to try to break us apart they won’t be able to because we will already be wed.”

“And what of your council?”

“I’ll tell them the truth, of course.”

“I’m imagining Tyrion’s face right now when he finds out.”

“It will be a picture, that’s for sure. So you agree to it?”

“Aye,” he breathes, stepping closer. “I find myself agreeing to whatever you want, Daenerys.”

“As a loyal knight should for his queen,” she teases.

“And a man for his ladywife,” he murmurs, stepping closer. Before she can say anything else he steals a kiss from her mouth, pulling away before she can deepen it. “We need to get back.”

She doesn’t want to, but they have made significant progress today so at least she has that to hold on to. She nods and allows him to step away from her, resuming the respectable distance between them.

It’s hard to school her features as they emerge from the godswood. Even Jorah looks as if he’s having a difficult time of it, his eyes shining with a brightness she hasn’t seen since before they arrived at Winterfell.

They trudge through the summer snows back to Mormont Keep. When they pass beyond the magnificent carving of the axe-wielding, baby-nursing woman, they happen across Lyanna’s master-at-arms.

“Mormont,” he grunts, barely sparing her a glance.

“Ser Hullin,” Jorah responds. Nowhere else would have tolerated such a lack of respect, but Bear Island is unlike anywhere else.

It’s why it’s so perfect.

“How many years has it been since you fled this place?”

A muscle tics in Jorah’s jaw, but he keeps his voice even. “Too many.”

“Still, you landed on your feet. Serving a southern ruler.”

“I believe in what my eyes tell me.”

“I bet you do,” Ser Hullin smirks, but sobers before Daenerys can object. “Still, there’s no denying that you’re a fine fighter.”

“I learned from your father.”

“Aye, you did. And elsewhere too, I can see. There are other styles in there.”

“I spent a lot of time with different fighters in Essos.”

“No wonder you survived The Long Night. With fucking skills like that...”

“You were the one who survived a giant attack.”

“And you were the one who had a thousand fucking wights charging at him. _And_ you charged in the first wave with the Dothraki.”

“It made sense. Queen Daenerys and I are the only two who speak the language. But I assure you, it was pure luck that I survived.”

“And the same can be said of us. A fucking giant! I didn’t think we had a chance. And yet here we are.”

“Here we stand,” Jorah agrees.

At that, Hullin’s face breaks into a grim smile. “Aye. And you’ve taught your queen to be quite the fighter herself. Not many can knock Lady Mormont down. She’s had the men of Bear Island trying it since she was old enough to hold a sword. Not many have succeeded.”

“Her Grace was in the thick of the Long Night too,” says Jorah. “She didn’t survive by accident. She’s never held a sword in her life before then but she did well enough to get through it.”

 _Only because I had you_ , she thinks. Without Jorah, she would have been torn to pieces within seconds. Jorah alone had fought for her life, and she for his.

How had there ever been any other path for them after that? A long, winding path that could have led nowhere but here?

“We should get going,” she says now. “Lady Mormont will not thank us for being late for dinner.”

“Aye, I expect not,” Hullin says. “Yer Grace. Mormont.”

Daenerys nods and gestures for Jorah to follow her. He does so, ever her faithful shadow. “I wish they used your proper titles.”

“That was more pleasant than I could have hoped for,” Jorah replies. “And I’ve not been lord of Bear Island for a very long time. The only reason they’re softening at all towards me is _you_.”

“Me?”

“Aye. We like strong women here. Lynesse...” His voice tails off.

“Lynesse what?” Daenerys prods, keeping her voice as even as possible.

Jorah rubs his chin. “Lynesse didn’t belong here. She made that very clear. And my family made it clear they didn’t like her either. They don’t have a very high opinion of me for that. But you’re different. You don’t care that the island is poor. You’ve made the effort to fit in. So even if they will never bend the knee to anyone but the Starks in Winterfell, you have their respect for being strong and fearless.”

“I don’t care about wealth and power,” she shrugs. “I spent so many years without either.” A lot of her self-discovery had been down to Jorah’s gentle care. The dragon’s power had been inside her all along, as petrified as her children’s eggs had once been, but she had needed the gentle fire stoked inside for it to blaze in to life. She had needed someone to believe in her.

 _With all my heart,_ he’d vowed to her one night, the whisper hot in the sweat-slicked darkness, the words pressed over her heart.

“I wonder how much they’ll like me when they discover I intend to take you for my husband?” she teases to levy the atmosphere.

“Take me?” he challenges.

She shoots him a smirk over her shoulder. “Of course. I’m a Targaryen. I take what is mine.”

“Don’t I know it,” he murmurs, but he’s grinning too. She winks, and continues on her way.

\-- --

She hadn’t seen the point in bringing one of her handmaidens north with her, wanting to travel as lightly as possible. Missandei had instantly offered to take up the duties. Daenerys had been reluctant, as Missandei was Master of Coin, not a serving girl, but Missandei had only shrugged.

“I don’t mind,” she’d said. “It was something I always enjoyed.”

Daenerys is grateful for it now, though, because she has something to ask. When Missandei steps into the room to help her for the evening, Daenerys locks the door behind her for good measure.

Missandei raises her eyebrow. “Your Grace?”

“You don’t need to call me that when we’re alone,” she says.

Missandei laughs. “Sometimes it’s hard to break a habit.”

“Even so.” Daenerys takes her hand and pulls her further into the room. “There’s something I need you to do. You and Grey Worm.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to witness a marriage for me.”

“Whose marriage?”

“Mine.”

Missandei’s eyes widen. _“Yours?”_

“Yes. I’m going to marry Jorah while we’re here.”

“You’re going to marry Ser Jorah?” Missandei blinks, but breaks out into a huge smile. “That’s wonderful! Daenerys, I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you.”

“What’s brought this on?” Missandei squeezes her hand.

“It just feels right. Does that make sense?”

Out of all of her council beside Jorah, it’s Missandei’s opinion who means the most to her. The Naathian is intelligent and measured, and a dear, dear friend. And she is the only one who can understand her from the woman’s perspective.

“Yes, it does. When Grey Worm saw me...” Missandei blushes, but keeps her head high. “When Grey Worm saw me in the river, I wasn’t ashamed. A little embarrassed, but not ashamed. For the first time I felt like there was more to me than what I’d been made to believe in the past. I was a little scared...but I was excited too. Exhilarated, even. I didn’t feel dirty. It felt...right, like you said.”

Daenerys squeezes her hand. Grey Worm and Missandei are so important to her; she’s glad they found solace together. They bring out the best in each other.

“Have you thought about marriage?” she asks her.

Missandei shrugs. “We don’t have marriage in Naath. Bastards don’t exist.”

“But...?”

She gives her a bashful look. “But I like the concept of marriage. Two souls being joined together...”

“That’s a rather romantic look at it,” Daenerys says with a slight smile, remembering how small and scared she’d been on her wedding day to Drogo. It hadn’t been like that. Blood and guts and fighting. No beauty there. Sometimes she envies her friend’s remaining innocence at the outlook of the world. She’s been treated with such brutality. Daenerys doesn’t even want to contemplate the horrors she must have endured. And yet it hasn’t made her bitter and cruel. She’s still so gentle, a truly beautiful soul.

“Isn’t there some romance for you?” Missandei asks.

“Practicality, perhaps. I know there have been murmurs foe years about me making a suitable match. I don’t think I can keep that at bay forever. Men are power hungry, and Tyrion and Varys want what’s good for the realm.”

“And you want Ser Jorah.”

“Yes,” she exhales. “I want Ser Jorah. And I doubt they would agree that he’s a suitable match in terms of wealth and power.”

“Maybe not,” Missandei agrees. “But in terms of everything else...”

“Yes, in terms of everything else...” Daenerys hides her smile.

“And you love him. That’s the most romantic reason of all for wanting to marry him. Defying the odds, defying the expectations...And Ser Jorah is a good man. He’s always been so kind to me. Looking out for me, helping Grey Worm...”

Yes, he’s always been so kind to everyone. He’s well liked within her ranks. Her closest friends are happy for her. They want _her_ to be happy. And that’s a testament to what she means to them.

“So you’ll help me? You’ll bear witness?”

“Of course! When do you intend to do it?”

“Tomorrow. As soon as possible, really. I want to make things airtight. I don’t want to give anyone the opportunity to take my decision out of my hands. I want to be in control of what I do, and I want to show people that there is another way.”

“Love,” Missandei murmurs. “And it’s a fine way to show them. Grey Worm and I will be there to witness, you have my word.”

“I’ve always been able to rely on you. You’re the best friend I could ask for.”

“You’ve been good to me too. And friends do what they can for each other.”

“We’ll meet at the godswood in the morning, after breakfast. I’ll tell Lyanna that Jorah is going to show me more of Bear Island. She won’t be interested.”

“And no one cares what we do. We’ll have no problems slipping in there. I’ll make sure I come and braid your hair before we go to breakfast. I know Ser Jorah wouldn’t care how you looked, but...”

“But I want to look nice,” she finishes. “Thank you, my friend.”

Missandei smiles.

\-- --

The evening flies. Daenerys doesn’t sleep much. She’s too...excited. which sounds so strange. Nothing about this is new. She was a bride once before, many years ago.

She’d known nothing but fear that night before.

And she’s never married for love before.

With the dawn chorus of birds she rises, pulling out the ensemble she intends to wear.

Thick black fur, flowing red skirts. The Targaryen colours on proud display. There’s no point in dressing in white. She’s a maid no longer, and she doesn’t want to arouse suspicion.

There’s a knock on the door. Missandei slips in, moving with quick efficiency. She plaits her hair into the intricate braids she’s so used to now, slipping Dothraki bells in for good measure. Khaleesi and queen.

Lyanna raises an eyebrow when she sweeps into the mess hall.

“You look very nice today, Your Grace,” she says. “Have you something special planned?”

“Not at all,” she replies, taking her usual seat. “Just more exploration, I think.”

“With my cousin?”

“Ser Jorah knows the island better than anyone.”

“Yes, I suppose so. He’s looking very fine too.”

“Is he? I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Yes, he looks as if he was born to be lord of Bear Island.”

He was, Daenerys thinks, but is wise enough not to say it. “It is cold up here.”

“Dragons can’t cope with the cold. Bears have thick fur, though.”

“I’m not doing too badly.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Will Ser Jorah be joining us this morning?”

“You tell me. I thought you would know where your lord commander is.”

Daenerys bites her tongue and grabs a piece of blackened bacon. Her stomach rolls. She won’t be able to eat much this morning. But that’s all right. In a few hours she’ll be married. Then the nerves will be gone, and she will have the future to face. And as long as it’s consummated...

She hides her face in her ale.

When breakfast is over she gives Lyanna a nod and leaves. She finds Missandei loitering outside the hall and takes her hand, hurrying her out into the snows. The walk to the godswood is a short one. Before they head in, Missandei touches her wrist.

“Are you ready?” she says softly.

Daenerys nods. She’s never been more ready for anything.

Without another moment’s hesitation, they step inside.

It’s like stepping into another world. The leaves grow dense overhead, like a splash of blood smeared across the sky. The trees claw out of the ground with their bony fingers pleading to a horizon that they will never reach, wights grasping at the unsuspecting ankles of the living passing overhead. There’s magic in places like this, she feels it in her very marrow. Different to her magic, to the magic she has seen from the Red Priestess. But it’s powerful magic all the same.

They find Jorah and Grey Worm standing by the weirwood tree. Upon seeing them, Jorah moves in front of the tree, and Daenerys’ breath catches.

He looks beautiful. Regal. A proper lord.

The forest green of his doublet, adorned with the rearing Mormont bear. The thick green cape in his hands. His golden beard and red-blond hair cuts a striking contrast with the velvet dark of his house colours.

He looks like a consort.

Missandei gives her hand one last squeeze before drifting away to Grey Worm’s side.

Snow begins to fall, a slight dusting, swirling like confetti around them in slow, spiralling eddies. Jorah’s eyes find hers, those blue irises holding her steady.

“Who comes?” he says, his voice little more than a rasp. “Who comes before the gods?”

“Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen comes here to be wed.” She takes a deep breath and holds her head high. “A woman trueborn and noble, and the Queen of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and Queen of Mereen, comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Me, Jorah of House Mormont. But I do not claim her. I cannot claim a queen, nor would I want to. I live to serve her.”

With every breath, she thinks, tears stinging her eyes as her smile widens. Only Jorah would embellish the sworn vows this way.

“Who gives her?” he asks.

“No one gives me. I give myself.” She will never allow anyone else to make her decisions for her again. Certainly not in this. Not where her heart is involved.

Missandei steps forward once more, looking between the two of them. “Daenerys Targaryen, will you take this man?”

Dany can’t look away from Jorah’s steady blue eyes. Even now, she can tell that he hardly dares believe that this is happening. She juts her chin out, holds his gaze, her voice shaking with the weight of her sincerity. “I take this man.” She’s had other lovers before—made her own choice in Daario and Jon Snow’s cases—gods, even now she still can’t bring herself to think of him as Aegon Targaryen, her _nephew_ —but this is something else entirely. The last time she married she was sold to her husband; the other offers she’s had and considered were bourne of a desire for what she could bring them as the Mother of Dragons, not as a woman. This time, she is choosing for herself, because this man has loved her fiercely as a woman as well as his queen, and because she finally realised the stark truth that has been in front of her face this entire time: she loves him too, more than she’s ever loved a man before. She’d spent her entire life being abused and demeaned by Viserys; it was little wonder that she had no notion of what real love was when it crept up on her. Jorah’s steadfast devotion had been something she had taken for granted for so long; it had not occurred to her that the deep affection she felt for him could grow into something sweet and strong and true once its roots had taken hold.

She’s glad that she realised that before it was too late. A life of fleeting passion with Jon would never have been fulfilling, nor would constantly butting heads with Daario. Jorah dares to challenge her as a woman, infuriates her beyond belief sometimes, but she knows that he has her best interests at heart, that he puts her above himself in all matters. How foolish she’d been to be blind to it for so long—though at least she saw the error of her ways before it was too late. She sees the arcing spray of blood in her mind once again—a sight that will haunt her until the day she dies—and thanks the gods all over again for the opportunity she’d had to put things right.

Jorah offers his hand to her, and she steps forward so that she can take it. His calloused fingers close around hers, and she squeezes him tightly as she moves to stand opposite him. As one, they sink to their knees in the snow. The cold gnaws through her furs and soaks her knees, but she pays it no mind. None of it matters. Only them. Jorah bows his head and she follows a beat later, still not educated in the northern ways. There’s supposed to be a moment of silent prayer, and she closes her eyes and counts her blessings for still having him.

They pause for the expected time before Jorah squeezes her hand, signalling that it’s over. He rises to his feet first and helps her up. The lines on his face have softened in tenderness, and he takes a moment to brush his thumb over her cheekbone before finding the clasp on her cloak. She turns to give him better access. After a few second of fumbling he gets it open, and Grey Worm steps forward to take it in his arms. Jorah gives him a nod of thanks before unclipping his own cloak, shrugging it from his shoulders. Taking a second to peer into her eyes, he moves to wrap it around her. She clutches the fur in her fingers as he secures it.

The ceremony is complete. She’s passed into his protection.

But never into his property. He drops to his knees before her once more now, unsheathing Dragonsong from its scabbard.

“You are my wife now,” he says, “but I swear to you that I will never ask anything of you that will dishonour you as my queen. I will be loyal to no one but you for the rest of my days. I will never usurp your place above me. I will serve and counsel you with only your best interests at heart, and I will give my life for yours.”

From any other man it might sound ludicrous. From Jorah she knows it’s the truth and completely that. Stepping forward, she bends so she can put her fingers to his chin and tilt his head up. “Whatever may come?”

“Whatever may come, by the old gods and the new,” he vows, his eyes burning through her.

“You are my husband now,” she returns. “I swear to you that I will never treat you as a subject but as an equal. You are my consort and I value your advice above all others’. I will never ask anything of you that will bring you shame. I will respect you as lord commander of my queensguard as well as as my husband. No other man will ever have my heart. We will always be together.”

He’s caught on to her intention. “Whatever may come?”

“Whatever may come, by the old gods and the new,” she echoes. He nods and rises to his feet once more. She curls her fingers around his ear and leans up on her tiptoes, finding his mouth with hers. Mindful that Grey Worm and Missandei are still nearby—though she knows they’re good enough not to be looking—she keeps it chaste, pulling back after a few moments and taking Jorah’s contented sigh with her.

And just like that they’re married. Husband and wife. No longer illicit lovers.

Her smile makes her cheeks ache. Jorah looks decidedly dazed, as if his head has just been clanged with a helmet.

_Husband and wife._

“Congratulations!” Missandei beams. “We’re both so happy for you. You deserve it.”

“Look after our queen, Jorah the Andal,” Grey Worm says, solemn and unsmiling next to his lover’s joy. Daenerys knows he takes his duties as queensguard very seriously.

“I will,” Jorah promises with equal solemnness. Daenerys presses her smile to his chest, ringing her arms around his middle.

“We should go first,” says Missandei. “Give us a head start.” She hands the cloak back over.

Daenerys nods and watches them trudge through the snow. She spies her friend reaching for her lover’s hand when they’re a respectable distance away.

“What should we do to pass the time?” Jorah murmurs.

She cranes her neck to peer up at him, her smile broadening further, though she doesn’t know how it’s possible.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” she says.

\-- --

Twenty minutes later they emerge from the godswood, cloaks exchanged back and properly fastened. Jorah had wanted to carry her to the edge, as was customary, but she had persuaded him otherwise.

“It’s tradition,” he’d said.

“I can think of more important traditions.”

His eyes had darkened at that.

But it’s true. They’ve lain together a thousand times over, but never as husband and wife. Until they do, the marriage hasn’t been consummated.

She doesn’t want to give anyone the chance of using that against them.

“Tonight,” she promises him.

“We should be careful.”

“No one will know. Missandei will ensure no one disturbs us.”

“And if anyone should come looking for me?”

“Has anyone come looking for you yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I doubt they will tonight.”

“But there’s a chance.”

“We’ll think of something if that does happen. Or we’ll tell the truth...”

She leaves him blushing in the snow.

\-- --

The rest of the day isn’t as amusing, however. Daenerys’ duties feel like punishment. The minutes trickle by like centuries.

How can she possibly stay queenly when she’s just married the man she loves?

It’s hard to keep a straight face. All she wants to do is smile.

It’s hard having her husband so close and pretending that he’s nothing more than her lord commander. All she wants to do is wrap her arms around him and drag him back to her chambers.

But she does her duty. She listens to concerns, she watches the men train. She goes beyond the keep once more to see the villagers. She endures the longest meal in history which Lyanna seems determined to prolong with chatter about the new peace with Queen Yara’s Iron Islanders.

As soon as she can, she feigns tiredness and excuses herself.

Jorah walks her to her quarters.

“Goodnight, Khaleesi,” he murmurs, his eyes dancing with secrecy. She’s glad she won’t have to persuade him to come to her; she can see the desire in the shadows of his eyes.

“Goodnight, Ser Jorah,” she says, and slips inside her room to wait for him.

\-- --

He comes at the hour of the wolf, when the rest of the keep is silent. It’s been another agonising wait for him, and she rises naked from the bed to surprise him.

His breath catches at the sight. “Daenerys...”

She shushes him, padding across the room to his side. He remains motionless as her fingers fumble on the clasp of his cloak. It falls to the floor with a heavy thump, and she fits herself to him, relishing the soft scratch of northern wools against her breasts. He pulls her closer, slants his mouth over hers to deepen the kiss, and without breaking away from him she slips her hands between them to begin untying his breeches. He makes a rough sound deep in the back of his throat that tugs on a chord that joins her heart and the place where she needs him the most.

“Come to bed, husband,” she murmurs in the heated darkness.

He doesn’t need telling again.

\-- --

She holds him close in the aftermath. The candles burn low, the flickering flames casting hazy light over the vicinity, the melted wax pooling at the bottom of the holder.

Jorah holds himself above on trembling arms. He runs his nose affectionately down the length of hers and she can’t resist catching his mouth again, dragging her heel over the curve of his backside to draw him closer. He breaks away with a gruff laugh, nuzzling her ear.

“Carry on like that and I can’t promise I won’t want you again,” he says.

She turns head to nibble on his earlobe, flicking her tongue out for good measure. “Who says I don’t want you to?”

He laughs again but pulls away, rolling onto his side and planting his feet on the floor. She watches the shadows dapple across his muscular back as he crosses the room to pour a goblet of water. Daenerys pushes herself up on her elbows to watch him. Her husband is a fine figure of a man. He might not think so but he’s well-built and still fit from his duties. Yes, he’s pleasing to the eye indeed.

“You’re staring, wife,” he says without turning.

“A wife can stare at her husband.”

“I suppose she can.”

“A wife can order her husband back to bed.”

“Most husbands wouldn’t like taking orders.”

“Those men are fools.”

Jorah glances over at her. “Yes, they are.”

He downs the rest of his water and crosses the room back to the bed, slipping beneath the furs. The sweat has cooled on his skin and she shivers as he traces her hipbone with a cold thumb.

“You’re cold now,” she complains.

“Warm me up,” he whispers, moving closer. “Your husband would like that very much.”

Husband. Wife. The words sound beautiful on his tongue, like honey.

Nor can she possibly resist such an offer.

Husband. Wife.

With a soft growl, she pushes him back onto the mattress and swallows his chuckle with her mouth.

\-- --

At dawn, Daenerys jolts awake to Missandei’s hand on her shoulder. For a moment she is disorientated by the weight at her back.

But then she remembers.

Jorah is her husband.

She rubs at her eyes and peers up at her friend. Missandei’s cheeks are ruddy, and she directs her eyes respectfully to the floor.

Jorah stirs at her back, his hand sweeping down over her stomach as he emits a husky grunt, burying his nose into her hair.

“Jorah, Missandei is here,” she whispers.

He stiffens against her before scrabbling for the furs. Daenerys grins, much more at ease, for Missandei has seen her naked hundreds of times. She shifts onto her back, glancing across at her husband. His cheeks have pinked too, his fists clutching those furs to him.

“I’ll keep watch while Ser Jorah leaves,” says Missandei, sneaking a glance at them before her gaze darts away once more in embarrassment.

“Thank you, Missandei,” Daenerys says. “Can you give us five minutes?”

“Of course,” she says quickly. “I’ll be just outside.”

With that she slips out of the room. Jorah swears, throwing the covers back.

“What’s wrong, my bear?” she laughs, watching as he moves around the room in search of his discarded clothes.

He shoots her a disgruntled look. “Missandei saw us.”

“She saw _me_. She didn’t see much of you. Perhaps your thigh and the curve of your arse. I didn’t think you’d be so shy.”

“I don’t want to give the poor lass nightmares.”

“You’ve got a very nice arse. And nice thighs,” she notes, unable to stop the grin from unfurling across her lips. Said arse and thighs are in full, muscular, glorious view now. Slipping out of bed, she crosses the room to his side and slides her arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Now you’re being silly,” he grouches.

“ _You’re_ being silly. Now stop wasting our final five minutes and kiss me.”

Jorah heaves a sigh but turns in her embrace, wrapping his own arms around her and bending down to kiss her with aching tenderness.

It takes another interruption from a blushing Missandei to finally break them apart.

Jorah makes himself scarce soon after, heading back to his own quarters. Missandei lingers behind to help her ready for the day, taming her mussed hair into a more presentable braid.

“You’re well this morning?” her friend asks, tying off the braid with her decisive aplomb.

“I am,” says Daenerys. “Very, _very_ well.”

They exchange the knowing smirks of two women who have very thorough lovers.

\-- --

The few remaining days on Bear Island fly by. Daenerys ensures she covers every inch of Bear Island so that she can share in Jorah’s memories of this place as much as possible, and one evening she even sneaks into his quarters to explore them as she’d fantasised about at the beginning of the trip.

But soon it is time to make the return journey to King’s Landing.

It snows on the day of their departure, light flakes blessing her skin as they stand outside the keep to be seen off by Lyanna’s household.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Mormont,” Daenerys says, moving directly in front of the young girl.

“I trust you had a pleasant stay, Your Grace.”

She feels Jorah’s presence at her back, so close that he’s almost brushing against her. “It was pleasant. I hope we haven’t been too much of an imposition.”

“Not too much,” says Lyanna. “Goodbye, cousin. Stay safe in King’s Landing.”

Jorah bows. “Thank you, my lady. Keep doing a wonderful job of ruling here.”

“I intend to. Will we see you here again?”

“Who knows what the future might bring.”

Lyanna’s eyes flicker. “Well, it is your home.”

Jorah gives a sad smile. “No, my lady. I lost it as my home a long time ago when I made the mistakes that almost destroyed this place. But I’ve found a different home now.”

“As long as it makes you happy.”

“It does.”

Lyanna’s face softens from its usual scowl. “Safe travels to you as well, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Lady Mormont.”

The group disperses, her companions moving over to their horses. Daenerys moves to follow.

“A final word, Your Grace?”

Daenerys turns back in surprise at Lyanna’s voice. The girl hurries forward, away from her household, leaving them in the middle of their two sides.

“What is it?” Daenerys asks, curious.

Lyanna scrutinises her for a moment more before tossing her hair casually.

“Perhaps bears and dragons are not so dissimilar after all,” she says, dark eyes so different in colour and yet just as piercing as her cousin’s, and Dany thinks that this is the best blessing she could have hoped for from such a tough northern lot.

It brings a lump to her throat.

The north doesn’t matter. But Jorah’s family... _that_ does.

They nod once more, in understanding of each other’s position.

In acceptance of the position each holds in Jorah’s life.

And, surprisingly, Daenerys feels calm. The secret will be safe until its announcement.

Lyanna turns on her heel and rejoins her house. Daenerys moves to her horse and pulls herself into the saddle. Jorah holds the reins out to her and she takes them.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

Her gaze slides past him and finds Lyanna one more time.

“Everything’s fine,” she says softly.

\-- --

The road back to King’s Landing is long and winding, but eventually the greenery returns and so do the distant smells of the city. Eventually they crest the hill and there it is in all its glory, the Red Keep climbing high above it all.

Has she missed it? She doesn’t really know. Being on the road with Jorah had been so freeing.

But that’s not the life they have.

The Dothraki holler and spur their horses into a gallop, leaving them behind. Grey Worm and Missandei trot by, exchanging soft words in Valyrian as they go. Only Jorah remains by her side, as it had always been, as it will always be.

“Are you ready, Khaleesi?” he murmurs as they take in the view of King’s Landing spilling out in front of them as far as the eye can see.

“I think so,” she says, turning to him. “What about you, husband?”

“As long as I’m by your side,” he answers, grinning. Every time she calls him by that endearment he pulls that same face, as if he can’t quite believe his good fortune.

One day he will have to. They are bound truly together, and there’s no breaking them apart now.

“Then let’ go,” she says. “I dare say Ser Davos will only be days away from murdering my Hand.”

“Perhaps he’ll just cut his tongue out to stop that incessant chatter,” Jorah says hopefully and she laughs. Digging her heels into her horse’s flank, she leads them down the hill back to her kingdom.

Back to the home she shares with her husband.


End file.
